Family Obligations
by InitialLuv
Summary: When a relative of Hardcastle's passes away, he travels out of state for the funeral, with McCormick along for the ride.
1. Chapter 1

**_Author's Note:_** As far as I know (although I wasn't in the fan fiction scene at the time the 'Zines were available), there hasn't been a fic with Hardcastle's sister as a supporting character. So I'm creating her for this story.

The time period of this story is in between the episodes "The Day the Music Died" and "A Chip Off the Ol' Milt," so mid-April of 1986.

Please review and let me know what you think!

 **-ck**

 _Disclaimer: I do not own these beloved characters, and I am writing for fun and feedback, **not** for profit._

* * *

 ** _FAMILY OBLIGATIONS_**

 **by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter One**

McCormick lifted the handles of the wheelbarrow and pushed the rusted iron contraption to the next tree. Once again he walked around the base of the tree, bending to pick up the larger branches and sticks that had fallen during the previous night's storm. The smaller twigs he left behind – he figured they were small enough to not damage the lawnmower blade, once he got around to mowing. But the big branches needed to be gathered up, and he now had a growing pile of yard waste at the back end of the property.

After cleaning up the last of the branches around the tree, McCormick stood up slowly to stretch, wincing at the pain that started at the small of his back and traveled up to between his shoulder blades. He looked at his watch, decided now was as good a time as any for a break, and loped over to the main house. He let himself in the kitchen door and went straight to the refrigerator, pulling out the pitcher of lemonade. After pouring himself a tall glass, he ambled down the hall toward the judge's study, only to stop and stare in bemusement at the partially closed doors. Hardcastle rarely closed the doors to the den, unless he was –

Yep. As McCormick stood in the hallway, drinking his lemonade, he could hear that Milt was on the phone. The man's voice was low and somewhat sober, which was almost as unusual as the closed study doors. Mark concluded that the phone call was private. He quietly left his place outside the den doors, walking back to the kitchen to deposit his glass in the sink. He then returned to his tiresome yardwork.

McCormick had only been back at work for roughly a half hour (three more trees) when he heard a screen door slam, and he looked up to see the judge walking his way. The older man's gait was slow, almost plodding, and Mark stood, watching the odd approach.

The judge stopped at his side, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. The storm last night had brought in a cold front with it, and the day was overcast and chilly, even for April in Malibu. As Mark had been working all morning, he'd worked up a sweat, and had earlier gone to the gatehouse to change from a sweatshirt into an old tee-shirt. He grasped the right sleeve of the tee-shirt now, stretching it out and using it to wipe the sweat from his brow and upper lip.

"What's up?"

Milt grimaced at the cavalier way McCormick treated his clothes. "That's why you're supposed to have a handkerchief in your pocket."

"Sorry, I plumb forgot to grab my lace hankie when I got dressed this morning." Mark placed his hands against the small of his back, again wincing at the ache. "Did you come out here to criticize me, or help me?"

"Neither." The judge looked around the estate, his gaze unfocused. "I came to tell you to take a break."

"Already took one about a half hour ago. I'm good. I want to get this done before lunch." When the unaccustomed motivation was not met with Milt's approval, but instead only elicited another scowl, McCormick found himself glaring back at his friend. "Man, you're in a mood," he observed. "Who died?"

The scowl disappeared, replaced with a solemn frown.

"Oh, crap," Mark groaned. "I'm sorry. That's it, isn't it? Who, Judge?" he asked anxiously, names and faces running through his head and making his stomach plummet.

Milt took a deep sigh. "My brother-in-law. Heart attack."

McCormick felt an overwhelming relief that was quickly assuaged by guilt. How could he be feeling glad that – for once – the person that died wasn't someone he cared about, when his friend was so obviously upset? Mark moved closer to the judge, placing a consoling hand on his shoulder. Then something occurred to him.

"Your brother-in-law? Who. . ?"

"Roderick Wyngate. But everyone called him Rick."

"Oh!" Things began to get clearer. "Warren's dad? So that's your sister's –"

"Mmm-hmm. Marion's husband."

"Marion." Mark repeated the name, sounding it out. "Marion Hardcastle."

"Marion _Wyngate_ ," Milt stressed. "And it's not like you've never heard me talk about her before," he growled, his scowl returning.

Mark shrugged. "Not really, Judge. Neither did Gerry." Mark had met the judge's brother only two months prior, and before that, had not even known the man existed.

"Well, _Gerry_." Hardcastle made a face, as if all he had to do was speak his brother's name to explain why the man would not have mentioned their sister. After a moment, his face softened and he grudgingly continued. "She was younger than us, though. The baby. When Gerry and I were out roughing it up, she stuck around the house with our mother. We didn't spend too much time together."

"How much younger?"

"Oh, about eight years younger than me, just a little younger than Gerald. But she was a _girl_ , you know? We didn't have much in common with her. And when we were older, when that wasn't an issue, I left to come out here for school, and Gerry, well, he left to do whatever he did." Milt shook his head ruefully. "We don't keep in touch like we should."

McCormick nodded soberly. "So when you were on the phone, that was about your brother-in-law?"

Milt looked up sharply, and Mark quickly held out his hands to ward off any anger. "Hey, I just came in to get a drink. I didn't eavesdrop or anything. I was gonna see if you wanted some lemonade and I saw you were on the phone, so I left you alone. It sounded important."

The glare receded, again replaced by the sad frown. "Yeah. Mary called me, and then I called Warren, to see how she was doing. She was putting up a brave front, told me she was okay, but she didn't sound too good."

Both men sighed simultaneously.

Hardcastle went on. "She hadn't seen her dad since she graduated. Last Christmas she didn't make it home. She's having a hard time with that. They talked on the phone a lot, but — "

"Graduation!" McCormick interrupted as the judge's last comment sparked his memory. "That's right – her parents were here for her law school graduation." McCormick had been planning to go to Warren's commencement ceremony, when E.J. Corlette had called with a last-minute request: he'd asked Mark to test out a car at an exhibition event at Riverside on the same weekend. Mark had been torn between showing his support for Warren and grasping onto the career opportunity (not to mention the money he'd receive for his talent and experience). He'd been surprised when both Warren and Milt had told him to take the racing gig. He'd been especially surprised that Hardcastle had encouraged him to go, as it had meant a weekend in a city over an hour away – without a chaperone. "Yeah, I remember now," Mark continued. "We were looking at the graduation pictures, and you said your sister was sorry she didn't get to meet me."

Hardcastle nodded distractedly at the comment. "Well, she's gonna get to meet you now. You're coming to the funeral."

"I'm . . . what?"

"Yep. We're flying out today, gonna be gone a couple days. So dump this load," Milt gestured at the wheelbarrow, "and then go get cleaned up. I want you packed and ready to go by the time Warren gets here. I'm going to go make some more calls." Then the man was walking back up to the house, leaving a very confused and inconvenienced ex-con behind him.

ooOoo

McCormick deposited the last load of branches and then parked the wheelbarrow back in the shed, but that was as far as his obedience went. Instead of going to the gatehouse to "clean up and pack," he again entered the main house through the kitchen, and began calling for the judge. "Hardcastle? Hey, Hardcase!" Mark wandered down the hallway, glancing in at the empty den. "Judge, where are you?"

"Whattaya want, McCormick?" Milt appeared at the top of the staircase, holding a razor and a hairbrush in one hand — he appeared to have started packing. "C'mon, Warren'll be here in about an hour. Let's get going!"

"About that. . ." Mark climbed the stairs. Hardcastle frowned at him briefly before returning to his bedroom, Mark right behind him. The older man tossed the toiletries into the open suitcase on his bed, then stood to stare at his friend expectantly.

McCormick sucked in a reinforcing breath. "I really don't think I should come to the funeral," he said quickly.

Milt crossed to the closet. "I don't have time for this, McCormick. Go take a shower."

"No, Judge, really." Mark stood near the edge of the bed, idly running his hand over a bed post. "Listen to me. It doesn't make sense. I didn't know your brother-in-law. I don't know your sister. I don't belong there." Inwardly he added, ' _I've got finals next month, and can't afford to miss class.'_

Milt selected a dark jacket, and pulled it off its hanger. "Why don't you let me worry about whether or not you belong there, okay, sport?"

"Judge. . . " Mark moaned. "Come on, please? It's not like I'm family."

Hardcastle paused in folding the jacket. "The hell you – " He stopped himself before finishing the statement, the word " _aren't"_ hanging in the air. He cleared his throat and started over. "You know Warren."

"Well, yeah. Okay." McCormick nodded reluctantly. "But she's gonna have family there. What does she need me for?"

Hardcastle sighed. He pushed the suitcase over, dropping down tiredly on the edge of the bed.

"Yeah, she's gonna have family there. Aunts and uncles, cousins . . . Rick had a lot of sisters and brothers. Seven of 'em."

"Seven? So _eight_ kids? What, were they Amish?"

Despite his better intentions, Milt grinned at the comment. "No, kiddo. He grew up on a farm, and sometimes that's what families did. They had a lot of kids so they'd always have someone around to take care of all the farm chores. Milking and feeding the cows, gathering eggs, working in the fields, all that."

Mark was momentarily distracted from the point he was trying to make. "People actually had more kids to make sure all the chores got done?" he asked. "Why didn't they just blackmail an ex-con?"

This time the wisecrack earned a withering glare. McCormick shrugged. "If you make me go to this funeral, Judge, you're gonna have to deal with a few smart remarks. You know how I get when I'm uncomfortable."

"So now you're going?"

Mark shook his head. "I don't know." He sat down in the chair in the corner. "I do kinda have some plans."

Milt scoffed. "A date, huh? So call and cancel. It's not like you don't have a good excuse. It's a funeral, for Pete's sake. I cancelled the Jazzmasters."

"And I'm sure the neighbors will send thank-you notes for that," Mark said softly.

"Huh?"

"Nothing." Mark sighed, then muttered, "I guess I could call." He knew Professor Malcolm wouldn't have a problem with him missing a lecture. In fact, a few of the other students in Malcolm's class had started calling Mark "Teacher's Pet" – a nickname he'd never in his wildest dreams thought he'd be called.

Professor Treater was another issue. Whereas Malcolm understood and appreciated Mark's unusual journey to law school, his other professor saw him as an annoying upstart with little to no future. McCormick was not looking forward to making a phone call to Treater's office.

Although Hardcastle was right, a funeral was a good excuse. And he had a pretty good friend in Treater's class, Vic Blass, who took impeccable notes. Vic would gladly share the notes with him.

Milt studied the conflicting emotions crossing his friend's face, curious as to why breaking a date would elicit such a hard decision.

 _It's not just a date. The kid's keeping something from you._

Not having time for that possibility, either, Milt delved into the topic at hand. He decided to give the kid a little push toward making the right choice.

"Well, just so you know, Warren wants you to come."

"She – " Mark looked up in surprise. "Why? You said she'll have family – "

"Right. And all the ones her age, her cousins, are all married and have kids. She's the odd one out, the one who moved away to go to college and law school. The one who doesn't fit in. Maybe she'd like a friend there, you know?" Milt looked down, rearranging some of the items in the suitcase. "And. . . maybe I'd like a friend there, too."

Mark smiled. "Yeah?"

Hardcastle didn't return the smile. "Don't be getting a big head or anything! I just don't want to leave you here alone, risk you having another party!"

"Judge, that was one time. What about all the times when I've been a good little boy, and you were the one who got in trouble? I had to come rescue you in D.C., and in Canary Creek, and on the Casper Arrow – "

"You didn't come to 'rescue me' on the train. You got locked in the can."

"And it was a damned good thing I did. You needed Tonto there, Masked Man."

"You're right." Hardcastle looked intently at a suddenly speechless McCormick. "We handle things better together. Maybe that's another reason why I want you to come along to this thing."

Mark found his voice. "How much trouble do you plan on getting into at your brother-in-law's funeral?"

Milt stood abruptly, and made definite shoo-ing motions at the younger man. "Go. Get. Take a shower, get packed. Make sure to pack a dark jacket and pants." Mark grinned slyly, and the expression was not lost on Hardcastle. "And not _that_ kind of dark jacket and pants!" the judge specified.

"Fine." Sobering, Mark stood and began to leave the room. At the doorway he turned back. "Wait. Where are we going?"

"Minnesota."

"Minnesota?" McCormick echoed. "In April? Doesn't it still snow in Minnesota in April?"

Milt allowed a small smile. "Pack a sweater."

* * *

Once arriving in Minnesota, the first stop the travelers made was to a rental car agency at the airport. As they waited in line to procure a car, Warren surprised both Hardcastle and McCormick by insisting to take the driving responsibilities. "No offense, Uncle Milt, but you haven't been here in years. There's a new bypass, and a lot of the landmarks you probably remember are gone." She next turned to Mark. "And I know you don't like being a passenger, but you've _never_ been here."

McCormick would have waved off the comment, but as he was loaded down with the bags, he just gave Warren a nod of acceptance. "It's okay. As long as I don't have to sit in the back."

Hardcastle snorted. "I've got bad news for you, kid."

ooOoo

Mark sat silently in the back seat as Warren and Hardcastle conversed softly. Both the young woman and the retired jurist had been uncharacteristically mild and quiet on the plane, and it appeared the awkwardness was carrying over to the car ride to Warren's parents' house. Mark could barely hear the conversation, but it seemed he wasn't missing much – most of the talk was about the changes to the landmarks and the relatives that were most likely going to be at the funeral. Most of the names meant nothing to McCormick. He stared out the window at the still partially-frozen landscape and watched as the city limits progressed into a rural area dotted with farms.

"My mom hasn't heard from Uncle Gerry yet, but your aunts are supposed to be flying in tomorrow morning – "

Mark perked up. "May and Zora? They're coming? That's great!"

Milt turned back to glower at the ex-con, and McCormick suddenly realized what he'd said. "What I meant to say," he amended, "is that it'll be nice to see them, but it's too bad that it has to be under these circumstances."

Warren actually laughed. "My God, Mark, you don't have to try so hard. That's kind of why I wanted you to come. You'll be the only one not mourning and moping all over the place. I think I'm going to need that."

Milt huffed. "Don't encourage him, Warren. I know before the funeral's over he's going to embarrass me."

"Don't need me for that, Judge. I'm sure you can embarrass yourself all by your lonesome."

"Guys!" Warren's voice had a plaintive edge to it. "This, I _don't_ need. You two can't be bickering the whole time. I know that's what you do, but I don't have the energy to handle it right now, okay?"

"Sorry, Warren," Mark said, and at the same time Milt said, "I'm sorry, hon. We'll behave."

It was less than fifteen minutes later when Warren pulled the rental car into a driveway. Mark sat up straighter, looking bemusedly at the large, tan-colored house that was very obviously just a residence and not a farmhouse. "Wait. Judge, I thought you said they lived on a farm."

Hardcastle threw a look back at the young man. "I said Rick grew up on a farm, not that they lived on one."

Warren was opening the door, but she glanced back at Mark as well. "Really, Mark, do I look like I grew up on a farm?"

Milt stared at his niece. "What's wrong with growing up on a farm?"

But Warren didn't answer. An older woman was coming out of the house to meet them, and Warren rushed up to her, arms out. Marion Wyngate folded her daughter into an embrace, and the young woman began to sob softly.

Hardcastle and McCormick had also gotten out of the vehicle. Mark stayed back by the car, while Milt went up to his sister. Quiet words were exchanged, and then the siblings hugged. McCormick viewed the family members from the safety of the car, feeling like he was intruding on the private scene. He tucked his hands under his armpits to warm them, exhaling a sigh and watching his breath steam in the cold air.

Milt and Marion parted, and the judge looked around, finally locating his friend. "McCormick. Get over here."

Mark approached the trio slowly, but sped up some when he saw the impatient glare Milt sent his way. He studied Hardcastle's sister. Several inches shorter than the judge, the woman had light hair with streaks of silver-grey through it, the same cool blue eyes as her brother, and a welcoming smile on her face. She held out both hands, and grasped the young man's hands firmly. "So you're Mark."

"Yes ma'am, I guess I am."

Hardcastle cleared his throat meaningfully, but Marion just smiled. She released Mark's hands and gave her brother a slight cuff on the upper arm. "Oh, leave the boy alone, Milt." She turned back to McCormick. "I'm glad to finally meet you. Thank you for coming."

"It's nice to meet you, too, Mrs. Wyngate. I'm really sorry about your husband."

"Thank you," Marion repeated. "And please, it's Marion." The woman put an arm around her daughter, and Warren laid her head on her mother's shoulder. Mark eyed the two women, and concluded that Warren had gotten her dark hair and brown eyes from her father. _Daddy's girl_ , he thought. _These next few days are going to be hard on her._

Marion turned toward the house, her arm still around Warren. "Let's get inside and out of the cold."

Hardcastle followed the mother and daughter, and McCormick followed him. Before either man could make it inside, though, Milt stopped and turned around to face Mark.

"Remember what Warren said. Best behavior, okay? And cool it with the smart mouth."

"What did I say?" McCormick asked. "I said I was sorry about her husband."

"Hmmph." Hardcastle turned back to the door, but barred the ex-con's entry. "Go get the bags."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

By the time McCormick brought in all the luggage (a suitcase each for him and the judge, a suitcase and a garment bag for Warren), the sun had almost set, and the chill in the air was increasing. Coming into the mudroom with the final two bags, he pushed the door closed with his rear. Placing the bags in an untidy pile on the floor, he removed his sweater and hung it on a coat rack next to the judge's jacket.

He could hear voices nearby. Coming through the entryway and bearing left, Mark entered the kitchen. The first thing he noticed was that something in the room smelled delicious. He suddenly remembered he hadn't eaten anything decent since right before they'd boarded the plane: a very expensive but somewhat small piece of pizza. The requisite inedible plane food could hardly be called substantial.

The next thing Mark noticed was that Milt and Marion were having a disagreement. _That didn't take long._

"I'm not saying I don't appreciate it – but you didn't have to do this. I just figured we'd make ourselves a sandwich or something," Hardcastle said.

Marion and Warren were both moving around the kitchen; Warren was setting the table, while Marion was pulling a casserole dish out of the oven. "And I told you it's no problem," she responded, in an irritated tone. "You three have been travelling all day – "

"It was just a few hours, Mary!"

The woman placed the casserole dish on a trivet on the table, then took off her oven mitts. "I'd wager it was more like six hours, door to door," she said. "And you wouldn't even let me pick you up at the airport." She gave her daughter a sharp look, and Warren ducked her head, lowering her eyes. McCormick was struck with a sudden recognition: Warren's reaction was exactly how he often felt when receiving the same judgmental look from Hardcastle. His sympathy for the young woman increased.

Marion looked back at her brother. "You came all this way; you can at least let me make you supper!"

Mark viewed the contents of the casserole dish with a sudden interest. "Is that macaroni and cheese bake? The Aunts' recipe? With the bacon and breadcrumb topping?" He turned to the judge. "Hey, you want to make yourself a sandwich, go ahead. But I'm going to sit down and eat this nice meal that Marion made for us." He sent his most winning smile at Marion. "Where should I sit?"

ooOoo

The four sat around the table, chatting in between bites, and the tone in the room became less somber and more cheerful. Marion shared a few anecdotes about growing up with Milton C. Hardcastle as a brother, and Mark listened intently, always eager to learn any personal tidbits that Hardcase would never volunteer on his own. Milt grumbled and complained and often disputed the veracity of the stories, but it was more bark than bite, and if McCormick had been asked, he would have said that the judge seemed to be enjoying himself.

Macaroni and cheese bake led to blueberry cobbler, and as Mark was digging in, completely preoccupied, Marion ambushed him.

"So I hear you've been dating my daughter."

McCormick swallowed a forkful of cobbler before chewing completely, and coughed as the bite stuck in his throat. "What?" he gasped.

"Mmm-hmm," Marion nodded. "You heard me."

"Not dating, _dated_. Once. We went to a movie. Nothing happened." Mark looked around frantically, at the young woman with whom "nothing" had happened, and at her uncle, who was currently staring hard at the ex-con. "Judge, you know that. I told you that."

"I know what you _told_ me. . . "

The blueberry cobbler forgotten, Mark again turned to Warren. "Warren, tell her. It was just a movie."

"Well, it _was_ an all-night movie. . ." Warren said suggestively, to Mark's dismay. "And then there was the concert."

"A concert?" Marion asked, raising her eyebrows.

"As friends," McCormick insisted. "I had an extra ticket, and – Judge, you were the one that suggested it!"

Milt shook his head. "Doesn't sound like something I would do."

"Mark." Warren leaned across the table, taking his hand. McCormick jerked, but anticipating that he might pull away, Warren tightened her grasp. "I think it's time, don't you? Now that you've met my mom . . . Isn't it time for us to let everyone know we're together?"

"Warren," Mark whispered desperately, "what are you doing?"

The young woman smiled brightly at him, her wide brown eyes boring into his panicked blue ones. And then she began to laugh. It wasn't long before Marion joined in, and when Mark turned to look at the judge, he saw that the man was grinning widely.

McCormick felt immediately relieved, and then just a little embarrassed.

"You're teasing me."

"No!" Warren protested, before dissolving into giggles.

Now the embarrassment was giving way to annoyance. "Fine. I get it. That's why I'm here. Comic relief."

Hardcastle grunted, slapping the young man lightly on his arm. "Oh, stop being a martyr and eat your dessert."

ooOoo

After dinner and desert, the three who had traveled from California started to feel the effects of their long day. Luggage was distributed, and Warren retired to her childhood room, while Marion showed Hardcastle and McCormick to their beds in the basement. "I wanted to save the spare room for the Aunts," she apologized. "I didn't think it would be good for them to be going up and down the stairs."

"Don't give it another thought," Milt said. "This is just fine. And I can keep the wood stove going, so you won't have to come down here in the middle of the night."

Mark was exploring the large finished portion of the basement, which included a TV area with a couch that converted into a bed, a full bathroom with a shower, and a separate back bedroom that was large enough to have a queen-sized bed and a dresser in it. He leaned out of the bedroom doorway. "Wood stove?" he repeated. He walked out to join the siblings. "When are the Aunts supposed to be getting here, anyway?"

"Their flight comes in at 9:45." Mark widened his eyes, knowing how that meant May and Zora had a _very_ early outbound flight. Marion went on. "May said they'd get a taxi to drive them out here – "

"That's ridiculous," the judge muttered. "All that way will cost them a fortune. I can pick them up, use that rental car you got so sore about."

"I didn't get sore about it," Marion disagreed, "I just didn't think it was necessary –"

McCormick broke into the disagreement. _Might as well embrace my role_ , he thought. "If we're gonna pick up the Aunts in the morning, we'd better get to sleep," he advised the judge. "And I'm calling the back bedroom. You can have the sofa bed."

Hardcastle sent him a saccharine smile. "Whatever makes you happy." To his sister he said, "That's probably better, anyway. I wouldn't want to leave the city kid in charge of feeding the wood stove. He'd probably burn the house down."

Marion shook her head with a tired sigh, then looked at Mark. "Is he always like this, or is he just in a bad mood from the travelling?"

"Who's in a bad mood?" Milt asked.

Mark grinned. "Ah, he's just showing off. Usually he's a big teddy bear. A real softie." The judge glared daggers at the young man who grinned even wider.

Marion bid them both good night, and ascended the stairs. Milt waited until she was out of earshot, and then turned angrily to McCormick. "I thought I told you to quit it with the smart remarks."

Mark ignored the heated words. "This is great down here. Did Rick do this himself, or did he hire someone? Do you know?"

Hardcastle sighed, the anger receding as quickly as it had risen. "Yeah, he did most of it. A couple of his brothers helped. He's got one brother who's an electrician, and one who's a plumber."

"Don't forget the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker." When Hardcastle's eyes started to narrow again, Mark held up a hand. "I know, I'm sorry. I'm tired. I'll be better tomorrow." He looked intently at the judge. "And you'll be in a better mood, too, right? For your sister?"

The judge gave a conceding grunt.

"Okay." Mark grabbed his suitcase and headed for the back bedroom. "Wake me up when it's time to go pick up the Aunts."

"Take your jacket out of your suitcase and hang it up," Hardcastle called after the retreating form. "And don't be sleeping in your skivvies – you're not at home!"

McCormick lifted a hand in acknowledgement before disappearing into the bedroom.

ooOoo

Mark had thought he'd have a hard time falling asleep in an unfamiliar bed (not to mention fully clothed in a tee-shirt and sweatpants), but he dropped off to sleep within a few minutes, snuggled under a warm blanket and a handmade patchwork quilt. Unfortunately, the sleep was brief, and in just a few hours he was rolling around restlessly, trying to find a comfortable position. After an hour of that, the ex-con finally gave up. He rose quietly, visited the bathroom, and then checked on the judge. The older man was fast asleep and snoring softly, a fact McCormick found he was both irritated by and thankful for. _Why should he be able to sleep when I can't? Well, at least he won't be harping at me to go back to bed._

Mark tiptoed up the stairs, which led to the junction between the kitchen and the hallway to the bedrooms. He turned to the kitchen, wondering if maybe there were some dinner leftovers in the fridge that would help cure his insomnia. After turning on the kitchen light he went straight to the refrigerator, and quickly removed the baking dish that held the last of the blueberry cobbler. He transferred the desert to a plate and warmed it up briefly in the microwave (making sure to stop the microwave before the timer dinged, hoping to keep his late night/early morning nosh on the quiet side). A glass of milk completed the snack, and when he had finished both food and drink, he brought the dishes to the sink – which was already full of dinner dishes. With barely a second thought, he tracked down the dish soap and a sponge, and was soon elbows deep in the sink, scrubbing the plates and glasses and silverware.

McCormick was so immersed in his task that he didn't hear the quiet steps behind him, and didn't realize he was no longer alone until his name was spoken.

"Mark?"

He startled slightly, a glass slipping out of his hand and dropping back into the dishwater. "Marion. I'm sorry – did I wake you up?"

"No." The woman pulled a chair out from the table, sitting down heavily. "The empty side of the bed woke me up."

Mark exhaled, closing his eyes briefly. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "Really."

Marion beckoned to the young man. "Come sit down," she directed.

Mark fished the glass out of the water, rinsed it off, and placed it in the dish drainer. After wiping his hands off with a dishtowel, he came to the table and sat in a chair near the judge's sister. She regarded him curiously. "What are you doing?"

He shrugged, a little too embarrassed to admit he'd raided the woman's refrigerator. "Just having trouble sleeping in a strange bed, I guess." He smiled slightly. "And your brother snores."

She snorted delicately. "I don't mean why are you up. I mean why are you washing my dishes at two in the morning?"

"Oh." McCormick laughed lightly. "Habit. I'm used to earning my keep."

Marion reached over to rest her hand on Mark's. "You're a guest here. You're not in my custody and you don't have to do chores." She sighed. "My brother has really done a number on you, hasn't he?"

McCormick shook his head adamantly. "No, Mrs. Wyn – Marion, it's not like that at all. Sure, Hardcase and I bicker and fuss at each other, and he acts like I annoy the heck out of him, but that's just his way. You know your brother, how it's easier for him to bluster and holler than to actually admit that he cares about someone?" Marion nodded silently, and Mark responded to the gesture with a sincere smile. "But we're actually really good friends. Best friends," he clarified.

"Hmm." Marion leaned back, regarding Mark solemnly. "You seem to know him pretty well."

"Yeah, I do. Very well."

" _Good_." Mark heard appreciation – and relief – in Marion's short response.

The woman stood, and looked at the sink. "Finish those dishes, then get back to bed. Honestly, doing chores at two in the morning." She shook her head with a weary smile, then headed down the hall back to her room.

Mark grinned. "Yes, ma'am, Ms. Hardcastle," he murmured.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

When McCormick awoke in the morning, there was a faint light coming in from the half-window at the top of the wall in the basement bedroom. He stared in the direction of the window for a few moments, still cloudy-headed with sleep, and then checked his watch.

9:10 a.m. Which meant the judge hadn't bothered to wake him. Yesterday it had taken them roughly forty-five minutes to get from the airport to Rick and Marion's house; McCormick knew it was very unlikely that Hardcastle hadn't left yet. If he knew the judge – and last night he had told Marion he knew him very well – the man had probably left for the airport no later than 8:30. To compensate for rush hour traffic, just in case the Aunts' plane was early . . . or an easy excuse to leave a still-asleep ex-con behind.

After a quick shower and a change into fresh, only slightly wrinkled clothes, Mark tromped upstairs. Warren was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee. Seeing Mark enter the kitchen, the young woman tipped her chin in the direction of the coffee pot. "It's fresh," she said.

Mark gravitated toward the coffee pot, saw a nearby mug rack on the counter, and selected the largest one. He filled the mug, then leaned against the counter as he took a sip. "Hardcastle left already?"

Warren nodded. "He was leaving right when I got up." She looked at the clock on the wall, which read 9:35. "That was about an hour ago."

Even though he was still a little miffed that the judge had left without him, McCormick took some pleasure in the fact that he had correctly calculated what time Hardcastle had left. "Where's your mom?" he asked next.

Warren toyed with her cup. "She's lying down. She hasn't been sleeping well. And then the Aunts called at 6:22 – I know _exactly_ when, because I looked at the clock when I heard the phone ring – to let us know their flight was delayed." She gave a very Hardcastle-ish huff, then muttered, "Just because they were up at the crack of dawn doesn't mean everyone else was."

Mark had lowered his mug. "Delayed?" he repeated, confused. "How much?"

"At least at hour. They're supposed to be landing closer to 11:00, now."

"So why did the judge leave so early for? He's just going to be hanging around the airport for an hour or more."

Warren had been taking a drink, and she now lowered the cup to the table, placing it down with more force than was necessary. She turned in her chair so that she was facing Mark, and raised her head defiantly.

"How the hell should I know why he left so early? I have other things to worry about than Uncle Milt's schedule! Like going to the flower shop with my mother and picking out flower arrangements for my father's funeral. And calling the newspaper office to demand they reprint his obituary." She gestured at a newspaper on the table. "They have the wrong year down for when my parents got married, and they even spelled his damn name wrong – "

Warren's voice broke off in a shuddering gasp, and Mark quickly crossed the kitchen to sit next to her and put his arms around her. But it was barely five seconds before Warren pushed him away. "I'm all right," she said quickly, her voice trembling. "You don't have to baby me."

"I'm not ba—" McCormick broke off, sighing in frustration. "Warren, listen: I know you're a Hardcastle, and that you guys can't show weakness and all that, but your dad just died! It's okay to feel sad."

"I don't have time to be sad," Warren said. "There's too much to do, and I have to take care of my mom, and – "

"Let us help. That's what we're here for, right? And the Aunts, when they get here – they can't _not_ help. And then what about your dad's family? The judge said he had seven brothers and sisters?"

Warren took a deep breath as she tried to calm herself. "Yeah. One of his brothers died a couple years ago, but the rest are still alive. They should all be at the wake tomorrow, or at the funeral. We probably won't see many of them before that." At McCormick's questioning expression, she elaborated. "Most of them live out of state. When they get here they'll be staying at a hotel by the airport. That's the only thing that really works – we sure as heck wouldn't have room for them all here." She waved her hand, indicating the house. Mark glanced around, trying to picture six couples – many with kids and grandkids – attempting to find places to sleep in the modest home. Well, "modest" when compared to Gulls' Way.

Warren took a sip of coffee, then furrowed her brow. "I don't think them staying here would be good idea even if we did have the space. My mom had a hard enough time with just Aunt Connie and Uncle Matthew. They came over right after Dad died, to make sure she was all right, you know? But then Uncle Matthew started talking about the funeral arrangements, and he had all these weird ideas, and my mom couldn't take it. She was actually relieved when they left."

"So forget about them," McCormick said dismissively. "But there's gotta be something I can do. Just tell me. You want me to drive you and your mom to town? Call the newspaper for you? Beat somebody up?"

Warren gave a half laugh that sounded more like a sob. This time she initiated the embrace, and rested her head against Mark's chest.

"For now, maybe just drive us to town later. Although when it comes to my cousins, I might want to take you up on that last suggestion."

"Oh, yeah?" McCormick hugged Warren a little tighter, letting his chin rest on the top of her head. "Just point them out. I've got a pretty mean right hook." He was quiet a moment, and then said, "But maybe don't tell Uncle Miltie I offered."

Warren smiled, and a genuine laugh broke through. She pulled away, sitting up to rub her hands over her face and then through her hair. Mark watched her quietly, and feeling his stare, she sent him a suspicious look. "What now?" she asked crossly.

"I – Well, it's – I was wondering – "

"Oh, spit it out, Mark!"

The terse demand caused him to do just that. "Your first year in law school, did you have Professor Treater?"

Warren's look of suspicion faded, replaced instead with confusion. "Treater?"

"Yeah. So. . . " Mark was still hesitant, but his curiosity forced him to press on. "Did you?"

Warren shook her head with a slight scoff. "Contracts is a required course for first years. Alt and Treater are the only ones who teach it, and Alt's classes fill up _fast_. So yeah, I got stuck with Treater."

"What did you think of him?"

"He knows what's he talking about." Warren made a face. "But he's an ass. And he's especially hard on the good students, which is really unfair."

Mark inwardly hoped that was true, and that it could possibly explain the professor's attitude toward him. "So he was hard on you."

Warren snorted. "He's also hard on the students who he doesn't think got there on their own merit. A lot of the professors were that way with me, thinking I only got into law school because the famous Superior Court Judge Milton C. Hardcastle is my uncle. It took a while for them to see me for me. Especially Treater." She smiled slyly. "The students have a little saying about him: His class is – "

" – no treat," Mark finished the phrase, he and Warren speaking the last two words in unison. Then Warren was silent. She stared at Mark in bewilderment.

McCormick went on, seeming unaware of Warren's intense stare. "Of course, the subject matter doesn't help. Contract Law – all that reading and memorization, and if you don't have the terminology _just_ perfect. . . " He sighed. "At least Civil Procedure is active, and interesting. Plus I've got some personal experience that helps with that. Not really Civil, mind you, more Criminal, but there are a lot of similarities. . . " Mark trailed off, finally noticing how Warren was looking at him. He smiled back at her, shrugging awkwardly.

"Mark – Are you – " Now it was Warren's turn to be at a loss for words. She looked away briefly, made a soft sound that could only be described as amused disbelief, and then turned back to the ex-con.

"Is there something you want to tell me, Mark?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Hardcastle pulled the rental car up the long drive, parking it in front of the small garage. He killed the engine, but sat still in the car, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and staring moodily out the windshield.

He didn't like sneaking around. He didn't like keeping secrets from his family. And he definitely didn't like what he had done to McCormick, leaving the kid behind with no explanation. _Isn't that why you wanted him to come along in the first place? To keep you from doing something stupid?_

But no, he'd gotten up and dressed while Mark was still asleep, his snores loud enough that Milt could hear them in the main room. Hardcastle himself had made as little noise as possible, afraid of rousing the kid. Then he'd crept upstairs. Milt had been somewhat proud of his near-silent exit, until he'd remembered who had taught him how to enter and leave a building without making a sound. He'd almost gone back then, poised at the top of the stairs and at a crossroads, and then the phone had rung. He'd quickly closed the basement door but needn't have worried – Marion had been in the kitchen and had answered the phone on the second ring. It had been the Aunts, calling from the airport to inform Marion of their delayed flight. They weren't expected to arrive now until almost eleven.

Milt had planned to leave around 7:30. He'd known that would give him an hour to work with, and he hadn't expected Marion would question the early departure much; she had been brought up to be prompt and punctual, as he had. O _f course that lesson never stuck with Gerry_ , the judge had thought with an internal grumble.

Milt had known Marion would accept his excuse of leaving early to avoid rush hour traffic, or to have extra time in case he made a wrong turn. But now that the Aunts were going to be late. . .

Hardcastle had re-calculated his departure for 8:30. His only worry then had been McCormick waking up and straggling upstairs before he left. He'd soon found that was unlikely. As he and Marion had sat at the table over doughnuts and coffee, Marion had told him of the kid's late-night dish-washing session.

"He said it was habit. Is it common for him to wash dishes in the middle of the night at home? Or does he do a load of laundry, or mop the floors?"

Milt had snorted derisively. "He doesn't do his chores in the middle of the _day_. Well, not without a lot of nagging." Becoming thoughtful, he'd quietly added, "It's gotten worse the last few months. Out with a girl every other night, or hanging with friends. . ." He'd reached for a powdered sugar doughnut, then changed his mind and grabbed a cinnamon.

"What's wrong with the powdered sugar ones?" Marion had asked. "Too messy? I can give you a dish cloth to tuck under your collar so you don't get it all over your shirt."

"Nah, I don't need – " Hardcastle had stopped and sent an irritated look at his sister. "That's not funny," he'd said, even as he'd been surprised and pleased that his grieving sister had cracked a joke. "No, it's just McCormick likes the powdered sugar kind. I figured I should leave him one."

If Marion had noticed the contrariety of her brother criticizing McCormick at the same moment that he was consciously saving the ex-con his favorite breakfast pastry, she didn't mention it.

Warren had wandered out of her bedroom right before Milt had left, but he hadn't seen hide nor curly hair of McCormick. And now as the judge sat in the car and avoided going up to the house, he was definitely struggling with a case of the guilts.

A sudden knocking on the driver's window startled him, and he turned to see Constance Bender – née Wyngate – standing near the car. Slightly embarrassed, he climbed out of the car to face the woman.

"I thought you were coming in to talk," she said. "I suppose we could chat out here, but I'll need to go get my coat."

Hardcastle cleared his throat nervously. "No, I just wanted to give you some time – I know I kind of sprang this visit on you. I should've called you yesterday." After leaving his sister's, Milt had stopped at a gas station to use a pay phone, not wanting to call from the house and have either Marion or Warren overhear his conversation with Constance.

"You should've called me five years ago." The woman folded her arms and glared icily at the retired jurist.

Milt lowered his eyes with a remorseful sigh. "I know, Connie," he said. "I don't know what to say. I was foolish." He looked up sorrowfully while keeping his chin down, trying his best to imitate McCormick's hang-dog expression. "Do you think you can forgive me?"

"Oh, Milt." Constance's face gradually lost its frosty glare. She came closer, draping her arms around his neck and kissing him on the cheek. Then she took his hand, leading him toward the house. "Let's go inside, you old fool."

As Milt accompanied Constance into the house, he silently thanked McCormick for inadvertently teaching him another invaluable skill.

ooOoo

Constance sat Milt on the couch in the living room, then went to the kitchen to fetch a tray with a small coffee pot, two mugs, and a sliced coffee cake. She set the tray down on the oval coffee table in front of the couch. Hardcastle watched uncomfortably as Constance poured him a brimming mug. After the several cups of the beverage that he'd already had at Marion's, he thought if he drank any more he'd be swimming in coffee up to his eyeballs.

Constance saw the judge's uneasy look, and glancing at the tray, she misinterpreted his expression. "Oh – cream and sugar!" She disappeared into the kitchen again, coming back with a matching enamel cream and sugar set.

Rather than explain the real reason for his discomfort, Milt took the spoon from the sugar and plopped a decent amount into his mug. He stirred the coffee idly, and almost spilled it when Constance sat down next to him. He looked side-long at her. She was sipping from her own mug, regarding him appraisingly.

"You look good, Milt. How have you been?"

He shrugged. "Can't complain." He took a drink of coffee without really realizing it, and then looked down at his mug in surprise. "This is good." _Maybe I should put sugar in it more often._

Constance chuckled, then held up the plate of coffee cake. Milt shook his head and held out his hand. "Not right now, thanks." He took another drink, then sat his mug down.

"I was really sorry to hear about your brother, Connie."

The woman sighed softly, nodding. "Thank you. How is Marion doing?"

"Oh, not too bad. I think us being here is helping. You know. Keeping her busy so she doesn't sit around being miserable."

"'Us'?" Constance repeated.

"Well, me and Warren. And . . . a friend."

"A friend." Constance's voice was edgy. "A woman?"

"What?" Hardcastle stared at her, puzzled. "No. It's – well, he's kind of here for Warren. Emotional support."

"Ah." Constance placed her mug on the tray as well. She turned on the couch to face the judge.

"Does Marion know you're here?"

Milt shook his head. "I wanted to see you before all the tongues get waggin'. I figure people will talk at the funeral, but we can't do much about that."

The woman waved a hand. "So let them talk. We're adults. What we do – or what we did – is none of their business, really." She narrowed her eyes slightly. "And I thought you agreed with that. Which is why I don't understand how you went back to California and forgot about me."

Milt reached for Constance's hands, holding them firmly in his own. "I didn't forget about you, Connie. I couldn't forget about you. But when I went home . . . Well, it's one thing to be with you here. Where I don't see Nancy everywhere I look. At home, I see her in the roses, in the garden, on the beach, on the patio. And I felt like I was, I don't know, dishonoring her memory. It was too soon."

Constance drew back, pulling her hands away. "What are you trying to say? That I had forgotten Phillip?"

"No, Connie, that's not – "

The woman went on, speaking over his response. "You weren't the only one who lost the most important person in your life, Milt. I thought that was what brought us together. It's not like I was on the make when I went to Marion and Rick's party. I almost didn't go. It was hard, those first few years after Phillip died, to do things without him. But a twenty-fifth anniversary vow renewal?" She settled back into the couch cushions, and slid closer to Hardcastle. "That's why you came, too, right?"

Milt leaned back as well. This time Constance reached for him, and they joined hands again.

"Yeah, I know what you mean, about it being hard doing things," the judge agreed. "Marion had been at me to come visit after Nancy died. Those first couple years were bad, with her and Tom both being gone, and the next few years weren't much better. I didn't want to come out here and drag everyone down in my misery. But I knew she'd have a hard time forgiving me if I didn't show up for that vow renewal shindig." He smiled slightly, looking down at their clasped hands. "She even enlisted Warren to get me there. Kid had only been in California about a year, then, but it was long enough for her to know exactly how to get me to do something I didn't want to do. I swear I was on the plane before I remembered I had told Marion I didn't think I could make it." His smile increased, as he realized McCormick had the same engaging way of convincing him to agree to all sorts of questionable things.

Constance was silent, and he looked up from their hands, to see she was watching him closely. Their eyes met, and it wasn't long after that when they both leaned in, and their lips met as well. After the kiss, they stayed embraced, Constance resting against Milt's strong chest. He ran his hand over her hair, twining the strands through his fingers, thinking that he would like to kiss her again. She had tasted better than the coffee.

But Hardcastle had a schedule, and after a short while he gently pushed Constance away. "I'm kinda crunched for time, here," he said. "I've got to pick up my Aunts from the airport." He stood, made a point of checking his watch.

Constance rose as well. "I know, you said that on the phone." She reached out to rub Milt's arm. Her touch was tantalizing, and Hardcastle wondered briefly how much his Aunts would worry if he was late to the airport.

"How long are you staying?" Constance asked, interrupting his thoughts. "Are you leaving right after the funeral?"

He nodded. "Pretty much," he admitted. "Warren might stick around, but me and – well, I gotta get back." A photo on a nearby china hutch caught his eye. "What about Phil Jr.?" he asked, gesturing at the framed wedding photo. "Is he coming home from Texas, him and the wife?"

Marion shook her head with a light scoff. "He's in the middle of some important deal, something to do with the concessions at the Cowboys stadium. Said it was an 'inopportune' time for him to be gone." When Milt snorted, Constance smiled in amusement. "They want me to come down there, keep bothering me about it. Phil says it would be a lot easier for one person to travel than three."

"Three?" Milt echoed, nonplussed.

"Oh!" Constance's smile became wide. "I'm a grandmother! See what you miss in five years?" She reached past the wedding photo and brought out another framed photo, presenting it to Hardcastle. In the studio shot, a fair-skinned young boy of about two was being kissed on the cheeks by his parents – a dark blond Phil Jr., and an auburn-haired Mrs. Phil Jr.

Hardcastle handed the picture back with an approving grin. "Cute kid. Congrats a few years late, Grandma."

Constance practically beamed at the moniker. She placed the picture back in its spot, then ran her finger over her grandson's face. Her smile faltered a little. "You won't believe his name, though."

"Oh, yeah? Try me."

"Killian." She twisted her face into a disapproving scowl. "It's supposed to be – "

"It's Irish," Hardcastle interrupted softly.

Constance looked at him in wonder. "That's right." Milt grunted with a half-shrug.

The woman continued. "It was his mother's idea. She's Irish. Her maiden name is McCormick."

At first Hardcastle wasn't sure he'd heard her right. And then he started laughing heartily.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Mark had originally thought it was a good decision, to confide in Warren about his status as a part-time law student. But he'd been remiss in remembering two points: first, as a law school graduate, Warren had plenty of questioning and debating techniques in her arsenal. And second – she was a Hardcastle.

"How do you even have enough schooling to apply to law school?" was her first question. It wasn't asked with malice. She seemed truly curious.

Mark had retrieved his coffee mug from the counter, and he took a drink now as he shaped the answer in his head. "I took classes here and there when I was younger," he said vaguely. "And you know how I was doing some night school courses a few years ago? Before I enrolled, I got all my transcripts and everything together, so I could get my credits transferred. It added up."

"Okay." Warren sat up straighter in her chair, staring hard at McCormick. "How are you paying for it?"

"Isn't that kind of a personal question?"

She waved a hand, as if personal improprieties didn't exist between them. "I'm not asking for receipts. But there's tuition, and fees, and books, and I know from personal experience that _that_ adds up. Do you think I liked dancing at The Brass Rail?"

"Whether you liked it or not, you were good at it." McCormick smiled in remembrance.

Warren rolled her eyes, but the gesture was made more by habit than as a reaction to Mark's sincere critique. "I was okay," she allowed, before getting back on topic. "But I didn't do it because I was planning to fall back on dance if my legal career didn't pan out. I needed the money. A lot of students have part-time jobs. Sometimes even the ones that get grants or scholarships have to scrimp and save – financial assistance doesn't always cover everything. And knowing your background and financial history and lack of collateral, I wouldn't think you'd be a great candidate for a loan – "

"Gee, thanks, Warren. You really know how to make a guy feel good about himself."

"Oh, don't be childish." Warren scolded him. "Just answer the question."

"Why? Where do you think I got the money? By hocking some of your uncle's stuff? Or maybe by running some money laundering scheme with an ex-cellmate? How about robbing a jewelry story and selling off the hot merchandise to the highest bidder?" Mark felt a grimace settling on his face. "I couldn't come by it honestly, right?"

"Calm down, Mark." Warren sat back a little, her face wary. "I'm sorry, okay? But I still think it's a valid question."

Mark nodded, slowly releasing his clenched hands – he hadn't even been aware he'd been making fists. "I did get a loan. On my car. But you're right, my financial history's not great. I couldn't get a loan without a co-signer. Frank Harper co-signed for me."

"So Frank knows you're in law school."

"Yeah, but that's it," Mark answered. "Well, and you. But you can't tell anyone. Not even your mom, or a random cousin – and definitely not Gerry, if he shows up. I don't want Hardcastle to know. Not yet."

Warren stared again. "Why? Mark, he'd be thrilled." She reached across the table and grasped Mark's hand. "To know you want to follow in his footsteps? Nothing would make him prouder. I know when I got accepted to law school, Uncle Milt was over the moon. He told _everyone_. Even casual acquaintances who didn't even know he had a niece. The day I found out, he actually told passers-by on the street. . ." A sudden realization showed on her face. "Oh. Okay, I get it. That's a _lot_ of pressure."

"You're right about that," McCormick said with a wry grin. "I thought I'd wait until after exams before I say anything – if I tank them, he won't know, and he won't have to be disappointed in me."

"Mark, he wouldn't – "

McCormick pulled his hand away, and she broke off, looking slightly offended. "Sorry," he muttered. "But I'm not telling him yet. Period." He frowned. "Although I think he knows something's up. I can usually get away with being gone on Fridays – date night and all, take a girl out to dinner and a movie, but trying to explain being out on Monday and Wednesday nights. . . Even _I'm_ having a hard time coming up with excuses."

"And what about study groups, or even just studying, period? How are you fitting all this in with taking care of the estate and playing Batman and Robin?"

"Not too great," McCormick admitted. "I try to squeeze studying in whenever I have a spare minute, but forget study groups. I mean, there's times I can't even make my classes. Malcolm's pretty cool – he understands the situation I've got with the Judge, and that sometimes I don't have any choice but to miss a class here or there. As long as I keep up, he doesn't mind too much."

"And are you keeping up?" Again just curious, although her voice held a note of concern.

"I think so," Mark answered hesitantly. Then, with more conviction: "Yeah. Even when I come back after missing a class, it doesn't seem like I've missed much. Everything makes sense. Malcolm will check on me sometimes, and he's always been satisfied with where I'm at." His face darkened noticeably. "Treater's another issue," he grumbled. "I can just see it: I'll ace his exam, and he'll accuse me of cheating, say there's no way an ex-con with a spotty attendance record could do so well in a law school course. So I try to always make his class. I might be late or have to leave early, but I'm there."

Although after answering Warren, Mark realized that in Hardcastle World, his ability to make it to most of his classes – as well as find time to study — was slightly unusual, if not downright strange. He took another sip of coffee, then looked thoughtfully at the dark brown liquid.

"Something wrong with the coffee?" Warren asked dryly.

"No, I was just thinking." He looked up. "The last couple of cases the Judge and I have worked on have all been local. Yeah, a few weeks ago we ended up in Arizona, but that was my thing. Hardcase didn't initiate it. And he's not bugging me about my chores as much. He's not even giving me as many chores. It's like he knows I need the extra time. Like I said, he's got to know something's up."

"I thought with you being in law school and all, you're supposed to be smart." Warren sighed, shaking her head in exasperation. "You can't see any other reason why Uncle Milt might be taking it easy on you, not making you do as much around the estate?"

Mark looked at her blankly for a few moments, and then he felt his face become warm and his stomach twist. "That – it's been months since that happened. I'm okay now. I've been okay for a while. It wouldn't be that." He swallowed. "It can't be – I thought we were past that."

" _Months_ ," Warren repeated, a hint of sarcasm in her voice. "You act like it was ages ago. It's only been a little over a month since you actually starting looking healthy again. And you're still too thin."

Mark didn't answer. Then, as if on cue, his stomach growled. Warren began to laugh, and it wasn't long before McCormick joined in. Both were thankful to retire the tense subject they had been discussing, and their laughter was loud and long with shared relief.

When they had both settled down, Warren gestured to the refrigerator. "Get something to eat. Man shouldn't live on coffee alone. I think there's doughnuts."

McCormick stood and crossed the kitchen to open the refrigerator. On the top shelf he found a cling-wrap covered plate that held two powdered sugar doughnuts. Taped to the cling-wrap was a handwritten note.

 _Heard you were up late so didn't wake you. See you later.  
_ _Milt._ _  
_

 _P.S. Tonight,_ _you_ _get the sofa bed._ _  
_

* * *

 ** _Author's Note:_** Astute readers of this chapter will recognize a plot point borrowed from Cheride's **"My Dinner with Frank."** I borrow little things from Cheride so often I should put her as a co-author on some of my fics!

 **-ck**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

The trip to town had included visits to the flower shop, the caterers, the gas station, and the grocery store. The last stop was to pick up items on the Aunt's detailed shopping list, which had been dictated to Marion over the phone the day before. Mark and the Wyngate women didn't return to the house until almost one, and as McCormick turned Marion's car into the drive, he saw the rental car parked up near the house. "Hey, the Aunts are here!" he said happily.

Marion, in the passenger seat next to him, let out a soft, resigned sigh. Mark parked the car, then looked worriedly at the woman. "What? What is it?" He suddenly felt he had said or done something wrong.

"Oh, no, it's not you." Marion reached over to pat Mark on the shoulder. "It's just – well I love May and Zora, but out of us three kids, Milt's always been their favorite. First born, and then he became such a golden boy." Marion shook her head, a slightly disgusted look on her face. "You would think at my age it wouldn't bother me anymore."

McCormick was momentarily unsure what to say. He'd heard from Zora's own mouth that Milt had always been her favorite. At the time he'd thought it was just sweet talk, but now. . .

"I can't believe they'd have favorites," he finally said. "You were the only girl, and Gerry was the screw-up – I'm sure you all got plenty of individual attention."

Warren spoke up from the back seat. "It's a losing battle, Mark. Sibling rivalry runs pretty deep. Something you and I have no experience with."

Marion shot a look back at her daughter. "It's not sibling rivalry. I'm telling you, they favor Milt. You'll see."

The three exited the vehicle, going around to the trunk to lift out the grocery bags. Marion and Warren took one each, which left three in the trunk. While McCormick was trying to figure out the easiest way to close the trunk while juggling the three remaining grocery bags, Warren and her mother walked up to the house together. When Warren was sure they were far enough away that McCormick wouldn't hear, she spoke quietly to Marion.

"If you think the Aunts favor Uncle Milt," she whispered, "wait until you see how they are with Mark."

ooOoo

By the time Mark made it inside, pressing the grocery bags against his body as they slipped precariously from his grasp, there was a veritable reunion going on in the kitchen. Hugs and kisses were being exchanged between Warren, Marion, and the Aunts. There were somber expressions of sympathy, equally mixed with declarations of how nice the house looked and how Warren had grown into quite a beauty. The boisterous conversation momentarily masked McCormick's arrival, until he lost his hold on one of the grocery bags – the one with the gallon of milk in it – and it thumped loudly on the floor, scattering its contents around the entryway.

The voices ceased as five people turned in his direction. He looked up guiltily – "Sorry!" – and then bent to reach for the dropped groceries. That put him at the perfect height to be suddenly engulfed by two diminutive older women.

"Aunt May – Aunt Zora – there's – I have to pick up – " Mark tried to detangle himself from the Aunts. "The groceries are all over the floor," he protested perfunctorily, while trying to not smile too broadly.

"Oh, Milton will get them," Zora said, keeping a tight grip on McCormick's arm. May nodded in agreement; she had Mark's other arm. "Milton," May called out. "Come pick up these groceries, and then help Marion put them away. We're going to have a nice chat with Mark."

Hardcastle had been watching his Aunts fawn over McCormick with a mixture of amusement and irritation. Now, at May's request, the irritation took over. "Hey, he's the one that decided to carry everything in all at once so he only had to make one trip," he groused.

But as it often was when the Aunts decided Mark was in need of some spoiling, Milt was either dismissed or directed to do whatever chore from which McCormick was being "excused." Neither woman responded to his comment, and they escorted Mark through the kitchen and toward the living room. McCormick sent an apologetic glance over his shoulder as they crossed the threshold.

Muttering quietly, Milt went about picking up the loose groceries, tossing them back into the bag randomly. He took the bag to the counter, returned to get the two other bags that McCormick had abandoned, and still grumbling, started putting the dry goods away in the cupboards. Marion stood in the middle of the kitchen, her gaze traveling from her brother to the trio in the living room, her mouth slightly open as she tried to comprehend what had just happened.

Warren nudged her mother with an elbow. "See what I mean?"

ooOoo

Once in the living room, the Aunts directed Mark to sit on the couch, and they took their places on either side of him. Both women were still gripping his arms, and while Mark was used to being pampered by the judge's aunts, this current interaction had more of an investigative feel. In fact, May and Zora looked positively somber. He felt his smile waver.

May released his arm, and instead placed her hand on his, grasping it firmly. "How are you, dear?"

Mark opened his mouth to deliver his standard response, but he had barely formed the word "I'm" before Zora reached out to gently take his chin in her hand. She turned his head her way, then lifted both hands to caress his face. "Mark, now, tell us the truth," she instructed.

"I'm – " Mark found he had to swallow, and that his eyes were becoming unaccountably misty. He blinked a few times, mustering up a wan smile. Zora lowered her hands from Mark's face, placing one hand gently on his arm.

"I'm all right," he said quietly. Then realizing his reply had been less than resounding, he tried again. "Really. It was a while ago, and I'm better now." When neither woman seemed satisfied with that response, Mark pressed on. "We told you that when we called – repeatedly." Weekly progress reports by phone had been the only thing that had prevented the sisters from picking up and flying directly to California to take care of their ailing adoptive nephew.

"We know what you two said on the phone," Zora flicked a hand, "but it was the _way_ it was said."

May nodded intensely. "Yes, Mark," she agreed, "no matter how well Milton said you were doing, we could hear the truth in his voice."

McCormick fidgeted, unusually agitated by the proximity of his favorite aunts. "That was a while ago," he repeated. "I'm _fine_. I look okay, don't I?"

Apparently, that had been the wrong thing to say. Both women studied him closely with consternation; Mark had a sudden fear that they were going to ask him to lift his shirt so they could check on the status of his surgery scars. He sat rigidly, barely breathing.

May leaned back first. "You're a little pale. And you're too thin."

"Much too thin," Zora agreed.

"You act like I never feed him." Hardcastle entered the living room, scowling at the three on the couch. After a beat, he shook his head at his own comment and said, "Wait a minute. He's a grown man! He can feed himself!"

Zora peered up at her nephew. "Why on earth are you so worked up, Milton?"

Hardcastle waved a hand to indicate the scene before him: McCormick bookended by two overly-attentive "aunts." "This! He's not made of glass! Stop coddling him!"

May patted Mark's arm, then rose to face her nephew, who was a head taller than her. "Have you finished putting those groceries away, Milton?"

At this point Hardcastle's face was reddening. "Forget the damn groceries! I want to talk about this!"

Zora gasped at the language. May kept her stance. "There is no reason for you to be so upset. If you want to talk, that's fine. But Zora and I will not be barked at. All we are doing is visiting with our nephew, who we haven't seen – "

The judge again waved his hand, but this time the gesture was aimed directly at the younger man. "He's not your nephew _, I_ am! He's – he's just – " Milt broke off, seeing McCormick's startled reaction. Then the older man's shoulders sagged, and he sighed. "Da- . . . darn it. Maybe I am a little upset," he admitted.

May took Milt's hand. "Come. Sit." McCormick suddenly found himself being gently prodded to leave the couch. He stood awkwardly, watching as Hardcastle took his place, now with an aunt on either side of him. Mark backed away toward the kitchen, and nearly bumped into Warren, who had been peeking into the living room.

"What's going on?" she hissed.

McCormick shrugged. He had an idea of what was happening, but he didn't want to get into it with Warren, especially after their brief, uncomfortable talk about his health that morning. Instead he attempted to change the subject. "Did Uncle Milt get all those groceries put away?"

Warren scowled, the expression causing her to resemble her uncle. "I can't believe my mom bought all that stuff, just because May and Zora told her to. She's still trying to rearrange the fridge to make everything fit."

"Well, there are five extra people in the house now," Mark pointed out. "I'm sure the Aunts were just thinking about having enough to feed every – "

"Like my mom didn't plan for that already?" Warren broke in. "But no, she has to go and buy all this specific food and ingredients, which they didn't even need. . . They already have a huge bowl of tuna salad in the fridge, and a banana bread in the oven. I guess my mom had some bananas that were 'over-ripe.' How in the hell did they have enough time to do all of that? They were here _maybe_ an hour before we got home."

Mark sniffed. "Oh yeah, I can smell the banana bread. Smells great." When Warren just glared at him, he smiled. "When they're stressed, they bake. And it's a good thing, because I finished the rest of the cobbler at 2:30 in the morning."

"What were you doing up at 2:30 in the morning?"

"I just _told_ you," McCormick said. "Eating blueberry cobbler."

May's voice rang out. "Mark, dear, could you come back, please?"

"Mark, _dear_." Warren repeated with a quiet scoff. McCormick frowned at her briefly before returning to the living room.

The judge was still sitting on the couch, May on his left and Zora on his right. May looked up with a smile at McCormick's arrival. "Sit down, Mark," she said, gesturing at a nearby recliner. Mark sat.

Zora prodded her nephew. "Milton has something to say to you, Mark."

McCormick leaned forward, waiting. Hardcastle glanced at him briefly, lowered his eyes, and mumbled, "'m sorry."

"Pardon me? What did you say?" Mark felt a grin tugging at his lips, and fought to control it.

The judge raised his eyes. "I said I'm sorry," he repeated through gritted teeth.

"Why?" Mark settled back in the chair. "Because you yelled? I'm used to it." He looked at May and Zora. "It's not a big deal."

Zora shook her head. "We were speaking, and Milton's upset about his brother-in-law, and worried about his sister. He said he's been a tad . . . grouchier than usual, and he's taking it out on you."

"He's more cranky than usual?" The grin broke through. "How can you tell?"

When Hardcastle breathed in, supposedly to inhale enough air to let out a loud retort, McCormick held up a hand. "Sorry, Judge."

May fixed the young man with a stern look. "You're not the one that should be apologizing, Mark."

"Well, neither should he." Mark indicated the judge. "So he yelled at me. I'll get over it. I yell at him, too. We've done that since we met each other. It's how we communicate," he stressed. "Maybe it's odd, but it's not that much different from how you two whisper to each other all the time."

"That's what they did in the car the whole way from the airport," Hardcastle muttered to Mark.

"That's neither here nor there," May responded archly. "We are not talking about myself and Zora. We are talking about how Milton has been treating you, Mark."

"And that comment, about you not being our nephew," Zora added, scandalized.

McCormick laughed. "But I'm not!" The sisters gasped in unison, prompting Mark to immediately regret his true, if not exactly tactful, words. "Listen, Aunt – " He started over. "May, Zora, you know I love you both, and I'm thrilled that you think enough of me to call me a nephew. But did you ever think that maybe it bothers your _real_ nephew?"

May and Zora looked silently and expectantly at the judge. Milt huffed, swiping a hand under his nose. "It doesn't really bother me that much," he said quietly. "I've had them as my aunts my whole life. I can share them a little."

Zora clapped her hands in delight. "Well, that's wonderful. I knew if we got the two of you talking, we'd sort this whole nonsense out. Now that you feel better, Milton, you're going to be nicer to Mark, aren't you? After everything that happened, I would think the two of you would have worked this out already."

Hardcastle looked thoroughly perturbed. McCormick chuckled at his friend's reaction before turning to the Aunts. "Ladies, I appreciate it, but you don't have to play referee. We're fine – _I'm_ fine. I'm a big boy, and I can take care of myself." After a moment, he added thoughtfully, "Except for when I get shot and tossed into a ravine."

"Mark!" May exclaimed. Zora lifted a hand to place it over her heart. "Mark, that is not funny!" she scolded.

McCormick traded looks with the judge, and the two men found themselves sharing smiles. "It's a little funny," Milt allowed.

May raised her hands in surrender. "You two. You're both incorrigible. And I think it's time to check the banana bread."

Hardcastle helped the woman to her feet, while Mark assisted Zora. This time instead of bracketing McCormick, the two women took Milt's arms. McCormick led the way to the kitchen, the wafting aroma of banana bread quickening his steps. Milt and his aunts trailed behind. Just before the three entered the kitchen, May pulled back slightly, causing the judge to pause. He looked down to see the woman peering up at him curiously.

"Now, Milton, tell me: how _is_ Constance?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

The bustle and turmoil of the Aunts' arrival had temporarily taken over the house, but eventually a more sober tone reigned. It wasn't exactly mournful – Marion requested that her family visit with one another and enjoy each other's company. "We'll have more than enough sympathy and tears when we get together with Rick's family for the visitation and the funeral," she predicted grimly.

Not only had the Aunts whipped together a tuna salad and a banana bread for lunch, they declared themselves in charge of cooking the rest of the necessary meals. At one point May mentioned that it seemed silly that Marion had hired caterers to supply the luncheon in the church hall after the funeral, when she and Zora could have put together a suitable meal to feed the masses. Marion had responded, somewhat wearily, that while she appreciated the offer, there was no way she would have asked her aunts to prepare a meal for over 50 people. The disagreement had a rehearsed sound to it, making it seem this was a topic that had been brought up more than a few times.

The caterer issue wasn't the only argument at the table. At the start of the meal, the women all began to pepper Milt with questions about someone named Constance. McCormick listened quietly, watching Hardcastle's growing discomfort with a tangible curiosity. When Mark finally broke in with his own question, inquiring about the woman's identity, the answer had been a snappish "None of your beeswax!" The judge's response had been so firm and loud that the name Constance was not brought up again. The topic was quickly changed, to yet another subject of which Mark had no knowledge. He sighed silently.

Mark didn't attempt to follow any further discussions. He poked at his food, feeling a strange sense of disassociation. Even with the Aunts' presence, McCormick felt out of place in the family conversations. There were shared remembrances of times long before he had been become an informal family member, and the inside jokes and comments about unknown people made him feel like he didn't quite belong.

Nervous and fidgety, Mark occupied himself by gathering everyone's lunch dishes (prompting a brief quarrel between the Aunts, who didn't want him to trouble himself, and Hardcastle, who said to "leave the guy alone – he's not going to injure himself carrying a few plates!"), and then he even attempted to start a load of laundry, before Marion dragged him back to the table and forced him into a chair. "That's just ridiculous," she chided him, although not harshly. "I will not have you washing my clothes."

"I was just going to start the sheets and towels and stuff," McCormick muttered. "It's not like I was going to do your . . . delicates or anything like that."

Hardcastle stared at him suspiciously. "How do you even know where the washer and dryer are?" The machines were off of the entryway, hidden from sight behind bi-fold closet doors.

McCormick glared back. "I was checking to make sure all of the groceries that fell out of the bag got picked up. I thought something might have rolled between the doors. I wasn't snooping, Judge."

"I didn't say you were snooping . . ."

"Right." Mark snorted. "Okay, so what were you trying to say?"

"I just think you need to be a little less familiar."

"I'm being 'familiar'? Offering to help with chores is familiar?"

"If you're poking around where you don't belong, yeah!"

"Hey, I just thought maybe Marion wouldn't mind not having to worry about the dishes or the laundry right now. I'm trying to be helpful."

"No, what you're doing is apple polishing."

"I'm _what_?"

"Guys!" Hearing Warren's meaningful shout, both the judge and the ex-con instantly quieted, and adapted matching contrite expressions. Marion laughed out loud, and the Aunts tittered.

Determining that the group needed to find an activity other than sharing memories, so that everyone (meaning Mark) could participate, Marion suggested a game of cards. McCormick perked up when the cards were brought out. Marion shuffled two decks together, and the judge scrounged up a pad of paper and a pen. "What are we playing?" Mark asked. "What works with six people?"

Marion looked up from shuffling. "Canasta. But it actually works better with four people."

"Count me out," Warren said, and pushed her chair back so she was sitting farther from the table. "I've never gotten the hang of canasta. I'll be the cheering section."

"Canasta?" Mark repeated. "Isn't that kind of like rummy?"

"It's similar," Marion agreed. "You haven't played it before?"

He shook his head. "That is one card game I don't think I've played."

The judge grinned. "Good. Maybe I'll beat you for once."

Even without Warren there were still five players, so the Aunts decided to work together, sharing a hand of cards. Zora recommended a practice hand, so that Mark could get the feel for the game. Milt scoffed, reminding his aunt how McCormick had always been on the winning team whenever the four of them had played euchre, no matter who the kid had partnered with. "Anyway, he knows how to play rummy, and this is close enough. He'll be okay."

ooOoo

Mark glanced at the cards in his hand then peered over them to his opponents at the table. He turned back to his cards, rearranged the order, then again looked at the other card players.

"Would you draw already?" Hardcastle said impatiently. Predictably, May and Zora chastised their nephew for his rudeness.

"Hmm," Mark murmured, studying his cards. "I think I'll . . . take the pile." He reached for the discard pile.

"Whaddaya doing?" Milt protested. Mark grinned at him wolfishly. "You think you're the only one with your eyes on the pile?" he teased.

"But you don't even have any melds out yet!"

"You have to show you have the right cards in your hand to make a meld with the top card," Marion reminded him. "And the cards you lay out have to add up to at least 50 points."

Mark nodded. "Yup. Got it." He placed the top card, an ace, in front of him, and pulled two more aces out of his hand to add to it. "The Jokers and deuces are wild, right?" he asked.

Hardcastle watched in growing dismay as McCormick laid out the bulk of his cards, producing both smaller melds and mixed canastas. "You know, the point is to get seven of a kind," the judge muttered.

Mark added a Joker to another group. "Nah, I like using the wild cards. Then I get to call them 'nasties.'" He finished his last meld, and with a flourish, discarded his final card, a three of spades. "I'm out," he said happily.

"A concealed hand!" May exclaimed. "Very good, Mark!" Zora added.

Hardcastle tossed his cards down on the table with a dejected groan. "Damn it."

ooOoo

After beating Hardcastle at yet another card game and, later, thoroughly enjoying a fortifying dinner prepared by the Aunts (smothered pork chops, broccoli, fried potatoes, homemade biscuits, and an ambrosia fruit salad for dessert), McCormick was in a markedly better mood. When he and judge retired for the night and went downstairs, Mark didn't even complain that much about taking his turn sleeping on the sofa bed. He bid the judge good-night and looked only mildly jealous as the older man closed the door in the downstairs bedroom. Then Mark pulled out the sofa bed and set about making it up, causing just a little more noise than necessary in the process. He looked hopefully in the direction of the bedroom, thinking that possibly if Hardcastle returned to see the younger man appearing pathetic and uncomfortable, a bed switch might be in the offing.

But after ten minutes of rolling over in the bed enough to make it squeak loudly, tossing the pillows at the door of the bedroom, and even moving the sofa itself so that the legs made a scraping sound on the floor, McCormick sighed heavily and gave up. He climbed out of the bed to retrieve his pillows, stubbing his toe in the process as he navigated the dark room. He swore quietly as he hobbled back to the sofa bed, sitting to rub his foot while grumbling to himself. _It's your own fault for throwing the pillows across the room in the first place._

Fifteen minutes later he was buried under the blankets and fast asleep.

ooOoo

Hardcastle woke automatically a little after 3:00 a.m., an inner clock – and possibly a slight chill – letting him know it was time to throw a few pieces of wood in the wood stove. He turned on the bedroom light and left the door ajar so he could see his way through the basement, but neglected turning on the lights in the main room so as not to bother the kid. As the judge neared the sofa bed on his way to the wood stove, he noticed McCormick seemed to be sleeping fitfully – a pillow and part of the blankets were on the floor, and the younger man mumbled something incoherent just as Milt came near. Creeping as quiet as possible, Hardcastle moved past the sofa bed. Once in the unfinished part of the basement, he flicked the light on and went about his chore.

Milt emptied the ash pan and threw three pieces of wood in the stove. He was enjoying standing in front of the crackling warmth when he heard a distressed shout come from the other room. Quickly returning to the finished area of the basement, Hardcastle could see Mark was sitting bolt upright in bed, his arms wrapped tightly around his midsection and an unfocused look of horror on his face.

"Kiddo? What is it?"

When Mark didn't answer Hardcastle's anxious question, only staring ahead at the memory that was haunting him, the judge came closer, crouching so that he was directly in the young man's sight line. "Hey!" he prodded, trying to break the trance. "McCormick!"

Mark responded slowly, blinking and then looking around the room fearfully. His eyes settled on the worried man before him.

"J-Judge?"

Hardcastle grunted, glad that the kid seemed to at least be awake. "I'm gonna turn on the lights, okay?"

Mark squinted reflexively as Milt turned on the overhead lights. He blinked a few more times, watching as the judge came back to seat himself in the chair near the sofa bed. Hardcastle cast a critical eye at the ex-con.

"You all right?"

Mark made a movement that was half-shrug, half-nod. Then, with a swallow, he answered, "Uh – no. But I will be. Just give me a minute." His voice shook slightly.

Hardcastle nodded, waiting quietly. Mark took a few moments to gather himself, then gave his head a shake and sighed angrily. "I hadn't had one of those in a long time. I thought I was over them."

"Bad dreams?"

McCormick laughed, but there was no humor in it. " _Really_ bad dreams. Extremely bad dreams." He realized he was still hugging his stomach, and quickly dropped his arms to his sides.

Milt sat back slightly. "I don't know. I guess I'm not too surprised. Not the best environment – it's not like we're here for a party, y'know. And after all that talk with the Aunts this afternoon, dredging things up. . ."

"And with Warren."

"Hmm?" Hardcastle's brow furrowed. "What about Warren?"

Mark shrugged again. "We were talking this morning, after you left, and . . . stuff came up." He tried to smile, but was mostly unsuccessful. "She almost admitted she'd been worried about me."

"'Course she would be. I know Warren can be as bad as us when it comes to sayin' how she feels about people, but you're family and all." This time Hardcastle didn't stop himself before making the assertion.

McCormick's lackluster smile morphed into a genuine grin that did a good job of clearing the troubled look from his eyes.

The judge harrumphed, looking away and then rising. "Well." He gazed around the room, cleared his throat, then turned back to McCormick. "You okay now?"

Mark took a deep breath and rubbed his hands over his face. "Yeah. I think so. It's pretty much fading." He lay back in the bed, closing his eyes. After watching his friend for a few moments, Hardcastle went to switch off the light back by the wood stove, then came back to also turn off the lights in the main room. He was reaching for the switch when a soft voice stopped him.

"Judge? Can you leave the lights on?" McCormick's eyes were open, and he was looking earnestly at the older man. "Just for now?"

Milt nodded, lowering his hand. "Sure." And by the sentiment the judge conveyed through the single word, Mark could tell he understood.


	8. Chapter 8

**_Author's Note:_ **Yeah, yeah, I know. This is getting to be longer / more chapters than I had planned. Although I do believe we're nearing completion. The visitation and funeral are really all that's left. Yet, knowing me, that could be another four chapters (but it'll probably only be another two). Thanks for sticking with me!

And did anyone else see the finish of the Chicagoland Monster Energy NASCAR Cup race?!

 **-ck**

* * *

 **Chapter Eight**

McCormick hadn't lied to the judge; his bad dream had faded not long after he'd awakened. But the dream's origin – Mark's near-miss at being a murder victim – was one nightmare the ex-con knew he'd never forget. He hadn't been able to fall asleep again until after 5:00, and his rest had been anything but substantial. When Mark finally made his way upstairs in the morning (again a good deal later than the judge), he could feel the atmosphere in the house had definitely become sorrowful. The Aunts were seated at the table, quietly sipping cups of tea, next to a puffy-eyed Warren. The three were speaking softly, and Mark saw May had a consoling hand resting on one of Warren's.

McCormick felt like he was intruding, and he hesitated near the basement door until Zora noticed his presence. "Good morning, Mark," she said with a smile. "You missed breakfast, but May and I can make you a little something."

Mark fought back a yawn. "Um, maybe just some coffee – "

"Nonsense." Zora rose, taking Mark's arm and guiding him to a chair. "Now sit down while we cook you a decent meal."

The change from "a little something" to "a decent meal" was not lost on Mark. He smiled gratefully at Zora and then at May, as she rose to join her sister near the stove. McCormick relaxed in the chair, letting his head tip back and briefly closing his eyes. Briefly turned into almost a minute, and if Warren hadn't nudged his knee, he might have fallen asleep right there at the table. He shook himself awake, then looked around the kitchen and toward the living room. Choosing his words carefully, he asked Warren, "What else did I miss this morning? Is everyone here?"

Warren let out a humorless chuckle. "I'm not going to bite your head off again, Mark. My mom and Uncle Milt went to the funeral home to take care of some things before the visitation later." She paused, then sighed deeply. "I didn't feel up to it."

Mark nodded silently. He understood the red, puffy eyes, and the Aunts' concern. He was about to say as much when another yawn prevented him from talking.

May set a cup of coffee down in front of him, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Mark, did you get enough rest?" she asked, and the knowing tone in her voice made him wonder if she had ESP. He was fairly sure that Hardcastle wouldn't have mentioned –

Zora turned from the stove. "Yes, dear, Milton said you didn't sleep well," she chimed in, completely dashing Mark's hopes that his rough night had been kept private. He felt his face flush, and he tried to think of a way to downplay the nightmare. "I – It's just – the sofa bed – " he stammered.

"Oh, I hate that sofa bed," Warren commiserated. "I got stuck sleeping down there when I was here for my parent's vow renewal. We had so many people staying here that they were in the spare room and my old room, and then my perfect cousin Evelyn and her husband got the downstairs bedroom, just because they were newlyweds . . ." She trailed off, realizing she was rambling. "Anyway, that sofa bed's pretty uncomfortable. No wonder you couldn't sleep last night."

McCormick nodded eagerly, grabbing on to the easy excuse. "Uncomfortable. Yeah, that's all it was."

Warren wasn't done. "But you slept on the nice bed the night before, and didn't you say you were up at 2:00 in the morning then? What gives?"

Mark looked back blankly, trying to figure out where she had gotten her information about his prior sleeping arrangements. Then he remembered the note the judge had left on the plate with the doughnuts, and that Warren must have seen it. _Damn law school graduate._ "That time I was hungry," he said with a small smile.

"Well, I hope you're hungry now," May said. Mark's sleeping habits were dismissed in favor of his need to gain weight, at least in the Aunts' opinion. He was soon tucking into scrambled eggs, hash browns, sausage links, and the last of the banana bread, which May intimated had been saved especially for him.

The coffee and the late breakfast helped McCormick feel more alert, and as he was finishing his second cup of coffee his curiosity also awoke. "Uh, when do you think Marion and the judge will be back?" he asked with forced casualness.

Warren was the first to answer. "They left not long ago, so maybe an hour. Why?"

Mark set his cup down. "I was wondering . . . now that he's not here to lay into me. . . Who is Constance?"

May and Zora had again sat down to finish their tea. At Mark's question, they leaned together and began to whisper intently. McCormick waited patiently, but when the women looked up, their faces showed matching looks of ignorance. "Constance?" Zora repeated, with deliberate reservation.

Mark's patience was quickly overcome by disbelief. "Come on. Aunt Zora. Aunt May." He tried for a tone between charming and flattering. "I know you two. I'll bet you know _exactly_ who she is, and how she's related to the judge. That's what all the whispering was about, right?"

Now the sister's faces flushed, encouraging Mark to push further. "I just thought you could tell me about her, give me something to work with. I'm kind of in the dark here. And you know your nephew, if I have to wait until he's ready to tell me, I won't find out for months." Deciding a little guilt wouldn't hurt, either, McCormick adapted the dejected look that he knew the Aunts couldn't resist. "But if you don't think I should know, I guess I get it. I mean, I'm not really family or anything. . . "

"Oh, _God,_ " Warren said, shaking her head. "Put away the puppy-dog eyes, Mark. _I'll_ tell you." She looked significantly at the Aunts, then started. "Constance is my aunt: Aunt Connie. My dad's sister. You'll meet her tonight. She's one of his siblings that lives in the area; her place is maybe a half hour from here."

McCormick spread his hands in question. "All right. . . What does she have to do with Hardcastle?"

Warren took in a breath and sighed it out before continuing. "Aunt Connie's a widow. Her husband died seven – no, eight – years ago." She looked to the Aunts, and received two nods of confirmation. "So her and Uncle Milt have that in common, okay?"

Mark nodded. "Yeah, so?"

" _So_ . . . when Uncle Milt and I came back for my parents' vow renewal –" Warren breathed in again "– Uncle Milt and Aunt Connie had a . . . fling."

McCormick laughed instantly. He waved off the comment, completely disregarding it. "No, seriously," he said.

Three solemn faces looked at him from around the kitchen table. "No," Mark protested. "No, he wouldn't – he doesn't – " McCormick waited for one of the women to blush, to grin, to call out "Got ya!" But when none of their poker faces broke, he felt his own smile dissolve. He stared at Warren in amazement.

"You're serious."

Zora spoke up. "It was a little bit of a scandal. The gossip! Of course, they were both consenting adults, but you know how people can talk."

"I still don't . . . " Mark trailed off. "How long was this 'fling'?"

Warren tipped her head slightly. "Well, we were just here for the weekend mainly, like three days. Uncle Milt and I had round-trip tickets. I ended up going back to California alone. He turned his ticket in, postponed his flight, and stayed out here another week. I think he would have stayed longer if he hadn't still been on the bench."

"He stayed longer – because of her?" When Warren nodded, Mark's eyes widened. "Holy sh – " he broke off, looking apologetically at the Aunts. "Holy cow! That's – that's fantastic!"

"Mark, now, behave," May scolded.

"Oh, I'm not gonna say anything to him or anything like that. What, do you think I'm crazy?" McCormick asked. "But this is. . . Man, I can't _believe_ it. How long ago was this?"

"Five years ago this February," Warren answered. "My parents renewed their vows on Valentine's Day."

"Five years." Mark repeated. _I wasn't even a blip on Hardcastle's radar. No wonder I never heard about her._ After another moment of musing, he chuckled to himself. The judge had stayed in Minnesota for an extra week – and had gotten back to California just in time to preside over his cockamamie grand theft auto case. _The timing!_

If anyone in the kitchen noticed his quiet laughter, they didn't question it. McCormick guessed the women figured it was a continued reaction to Warren's revelation. As he had more questions, Mark did his best to rein in his smile and adapt a more serious expression.

"Okay, this all happened five years ago. . . Did they keep in touch? I've never heard of this woman before yesterday."

Warren frowned. "When Uncle Milt came back to California, he kind of acted like the thing with Aunt Connie never happened. I think maybe they might have talked on the phone once or twice or exchanged Christmas cards, but, you know, long-distance relationships. . . " She shrugged.

Mark looked at the Aunts. "So who broke it off?" When the sisters didn't immediately reply, only shaking their heads sadly, he snorted softly. "He did." Then: "Why?"

"Oh, you know." May looked sorrowful. "Milton has always held Nancy up on a pedestal, and he has a difficult time even thinking about having a serious relationship with another woman." McCormick was nodding soberly when Zora pitched in, "And then there were Constance's family members. Several of them didn't approve, and they let their chins wag."

Mark scoffed at that statement. "So what? He wouldn't worry about _that_. One of the first things I learned about your nephew is that he doesn't care what people say about him. Well, he might care, but he doesn't let stupid gossip impact his decisions." His gaze unfocused as he became thoughtful. "And I'm damn lucky he doesn't. There are still some people out there that are pretty . . . vocal about how they think his little 'retirement' project with me is a mistake."

"Oh, those are just people who don't know you, Mark." Zora reached over to pat his hand. He smiled at her, mildly surprised at how the sincere words went right to his heart. He was surprised even more to hear Warren mutter: "No, they're people who don't have anything better to do with their time than to criticize Mark and Uncle Milt."

McCormick did his best to wipe the dopey smile off his face, as he was still trying to understand the brief relationship between Hardcastle and Warren's aunt. "I don't believe the judge broke it off with her just because he was worried about what people would say about him," he continued to argue. "Unless . . . he was worried about what people would say about _her_. But she must not have thought it was that big a deal, or she would've ended it first." Mark gazed at the women around the table. "He broke it off to save her honor, and she didn't need it saved." He laughed again. "What a donkey."

ooOoo

Milt and Marion returned to the house less than an hour later. The Aunts were still in the kitchen, already making preparations for supper, scheduled earlier than usual to accommodate the evening's visitation. Warren was actually assisting, peeling and cutting up the carrots for the pot roast. And McCormick was curled up on the couch, snoring softly.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Author's Note:**_ Happy 4th of July, y'all!

 **-ck**

* * *

 **Chapter Nine**

Since Mark had fallen asleep in the living room, the rest of the family spent most of the afternoon in the kitchen. Milt initially grumbled and muttered about McCormick taking up residence on the couch, yet whenever the volume in the kitchen rose, he was quick to shush the women, and usually followed the reprimand with a worried look in the direction of the living room.

Hardcastle let McCormick sleep until around 4:30, and then he went to the couch and purposefully jostled the young man's shoulder. "Hey, McCormick. Come on, time to wake up."

Mark muttered something and rolled over, away from the judge. Milt bent down, reaching over to shake his shoulder harder. "Let's go, kiddo. We got stuff to do."

"Lemme 'lone. Tired. Class ran late," McCormick mumbled, still half-asleep.

Milt leaned back in surprise. _Class? What class?_ He knew the kid had taken some night courses here and there the last year, but he wasn't aware of him being in any – _Wait._ _Of course._ The frequent nights out, the distractibility, the vague furtiveness. . . _He's back in school._ And he was apparently intentionally keeping that fact from his mentor.

Hardcastle wavered over how this sudden revelation made him feel. On the one hand, he was annoyed and a little hurt by the secrecy.

 _I'll call him on it. Flex my interrogation muscles. Make him come clean._

But at the same time, he trusted McCormick, and if the kid had a reason for keeping him in the dark, it was most likely a good one.

 _Or, I could just wait for him to tell me_ – _when he's ready._

That was as far as the judge's thoughts got. Mark had rolled over again, and was now blinking groggily at Hardcastle. "Judge? What time is it?"

"Four-thirty. C'mon, the Aunts have supper ready, and then we gotta get changed for the visitation."

McCormick stretched his arms and ran his hands over his face. "I ate breakfast pretty late. I'm not really hungry – " He quieted and sniffed, testing the aromas. "Pot roast?" he questioned.

"Just came outta the oven."

"Really?" Mark sat up, suddenly looking more alert. A moment later his stomach growled.

Milt grinned. "Not hungry, huh?"

* * *

They took both cars to the funeral home; Marion and Warren left first, so they would have extra time to make sure everything was set up correctly. This also gave them private time to mourn. Hardcastle, McCormick, and the Aunts followed in the rental car thirty minutes later, yet still arrived with enough time to be able to view the casket in relative privacy. McCormick glanced briefly at the open casket and then concentrated on the easels full of photographs. He much preferred the images of a young, smiling, _alive_ Rick to the one in the coffin. He took particular interest in the photographs that showed Warren as a child – a dark-haired tyke posing with her father at a beach, a carnival, a Christmas party. He even saw a photograph that included Hardcastle, seated at a banquet table next to Rick, who seemed to be about the same age as the judge. The two had paused in eating what looked like wedding cake to smile for the camera. Hardcastle appeared slightly younger in the picture – not as many lines around his eyes, a marginally less-frayed Yankees baseball cap. McCormick guessed it was from the vow renewal five years prior.

Guests began to trickle in. The receiving line by the casket was quite small, with only Warren and Marion. Deciding to support his sister and niece, Milt took up position between the two of them. Mark and the Aunts seated themselves in the front row of the chairs, and as the mourners arrived, May and Zora supplied color commentary. "That's Rick's brother Earl, and his wife." "That young man is Rick and Marion's nephew Tyler." "See the woman over there, in the darling blue dress? Isn't that just _darling_ , May?" "It's beautiful, Zora, I wonder if it's Halston, or Chanel?" "Whichever, I'm sure it's expensive, you know her husband is quite well-off." "Yes, he's a charter pilot, isn't he?" "Yes, out of Minneapolis, I believe. Anyway, Mark, that's Warren's cousin Evelyn."

" _Perfect_ Evelyn?" McCormick whispered back.

Zora looked side-long at her adopted nephew. "Oh, you caught that, did you?" Mark shrugged modestly, but allowed a smile. He watched the woman, who looked to be in her late twenties, take her turn near the casket, bowing her head and dabbing at her eyes. A boy of about four was trailing after the woman, and behind him was a man roughly Mark's age, presumably Perfect Evelyn's husband. The man radiated easy success. McCormick regarded him with an instant dislike that he was hard-pressed to explain. "Doesn't it cost a lot of money to become a pilot?" he wondered. "Flight school and a flying license and all that?"

May nodded. "Yes, but his parents paid for most of that. His family owns a chain of very popular fast food restaurants here in the Midwest." As Mark continued to watch the small family, he saw the boy look into the casket, and then begin to wail loudly. Perfect Evelyn's successful husband gave the child a slap on the back of his head. McCormick jerked at the same time the boy did, and felt his face flush with a remembered anger.

From the receiving line, Hardcastle gestured at the three of them. "McCormick!" he hissed, and waved up the young man. Mark shook off the memories and rose to move up to the judge. "What?" he asked quietly, adjusting his jacket. It was somewhat loose – maybe he _was_ still a little too thin.

"Marion left her sweater in the other room. Grab it for her, willya? And maybe see if you can find another box of tissues. The one we got is running low."

McCormick located both the sweater and the tissues, returned to the receiving line, and distributed the items accordingly. When he handed Marion her sweater she gripped his hand firmly and held on a moment longer than necessary, looking gratefully at him through red-rimmed eyes. Impulsively Mark embraced her, and then moved past the judge to also give Warren a tight hug.

Milt nudged him on the arm. "Hey. You're holding up the line." Mark pulled back from Warren, and grinned slyly at Hardcastle. "Aw, you're just jealous because you didn't get a hug. Come here." The young man lifted his arms slightly, his grin growing. Hardcastle slapped his arms down with an embarrassed scowl. On both sides of the judge, the women laughed through their tears.

McCormick returned to his chair between the Aunts. Zora practically pulled him into his seat. "Just in time, Mark. Here comes Constance."

An older woman – yet maybe a decade younger than the judge – was nearing the casket. The age difference in itself explained to Mark what some of the gossip may have been about. The woman had light brown hair that ended just past her shoulders, and even from the distance, Mark was fairly sure there was no grey amongst the brown. "That's Rick's sister?" he murmured. "She's got to be ten years younger than him."

May: "She's the second youngest. Actually the youngest, now – her brother who died a few years back was the baby of the family." Zora: "So tragic. Both he and his wife were in a terrible car accident, during a snowstorm. He was killed, and she was seriously hurt. She walks with a cane, now."

McCormick turned from the Aunts to again look at Constance. Rick's sister was conservatively dressed in a black skirt and jacket, with a dark grey blouse underneath. She was worrying a handkerchief in her hands, but did not appear to be openly crying. She paused at the casket, reached in to gently touch her brother's face, and then moved toward the receiving line. McCormick watched closely as Constance approached Hardcastle, but was disappointed to see only a perfunctory hug. He settled back in his chair with a grumpy frown. Zora laughed softly, patting his hand. "Surely you didn't expect them to carry on like teenagers in front of everyone," she teased. "No," May agreed, "they did that already when he visited her yesterday morning."

That explained the excessively early departure for the airport. _Still . . ._ "He _told_ you that?"

Now May was tittering as well. "Of course not. He didn't even tell us he had seen her. But we knew."

McCormick was used to the sisters' prowess for investigative work and wasn't surprised by this news, although he was in the dark as to how they had made their discovery. "How did you figure it out?" he asked. From the discussion at lunch yesterday, he knew Hardcastle hadn't been forthcoming with that information.

"We knew as soon as he picked us up at the airport," May smiled. Zora nodded humorously. "Once he gave each of us a hug. I know we hadn't seen Milton in a little while, but I didn't think it was _that_ long that he'd started doing something like wearing women's perfume."

Mark's frown was soon replaced with a cheesy grin, as he considered how close Hardcastle and Constance must have gotten for the woman's perfume to transmit to the judge.

It wasn't much later, though, when the funereal atmosphere started to take its toll on him. Even the Aunts' asides and soft witty statements did little to ease his discomfort, as he despondently watched the slow progression of the line of mourners. _And then there'll be prayers, and maybe someone will say something about Rick, and we're going to be stuck here all night. . ._ He fidgeted on his chair, sighed deeply, and then began to fiddle with the liner on his jacket.

"Mark?" May rested a hand on his knee. "Are you all right?"

He tilted his head back and forth in an apathetic nod. He didn't want to call attention to his distress, as he felt he had little reason to be upset. He hadn't known Rick, and could hardly be said to be grieving. Yet the sea of depressed faces, the sniffles, the people hugging each other in shared sorrow. . . It was too much. His head began to swim with recollections of other visitations, other funerals, other lost friends and family members.

Zora leaned into his field of vision. "Mark?" The questioning tone in her voice made him think she had called his name more than once.

He stood suddenly. "I need some air. Where – how do I – " McCormick looked anxiously around the room. He didn't want to part the sea of mourners to get out the front door, but if he didn't get out of there quick, he had a feeling he might make a scene.

May grasped his hand, and when he looked down at her, she was nodding toward the back of the main room. "I think I saw a back exit past the restrooms," she said in a confiding whisper.

He squeezed May's hand, forced a tense smile, and then made his escape.

ooOoo

Exiting through the back door, McCormick descended the few cement steps that led to the ground, and found he was in the rear parking lot. He rested his back against the cold brick wall of the funeral home, closing his eyes and breathing in the chilly air. He immediately felt refreshed. Exhaling in relief, he opened his eyes to see the frosty condensation of his breath, backlit by the light above the door. Then he saw another type of white vapor in the air: cigarette smoke.

The man with the cigarette was standing a little off to the side. He was older than the judge, and his frail appearance brought the word "elderly" to Mark's mind. Mark thought he'd seen him in the group of Rick's relatives, although he was blanking on the man's name. The smoking man nodded at McCormick, then spoke as if they had already started a conversation. "I remember when you could smoke in funeral homes. And in hospital waiting rooms." He held up a partial pack of cigarette. "Coffin nail?" he offered.

The bad pun was not lost on McCormick. He shook his head. "No thanks. I was convinced to give them up."

The man nodded again. "I can understand that. I'll bet smoking was never one of Milton's vices." McCormick tried his best not to grimace. _How many of these people know my arrangement with Hardcastle? I don't even know them well enough to keep their names straight, but they sure as hell know me._

The man was still talking. "I gave them up myself for a time, a while back." He patted his chest in the area near his heart. "Double bypass. Five years ago. Something like that makes you accept your mortality." He lifted the cigarette to his lips and inhaled, then blew the smoke out slowly. "But what am I talking to you about that for? You're a young guy, you wouldn't know."

McCormick again shook his head, but he wasn't about to divulge his "acceptance of mortality" moment. "I don't know," he said. "I think something like this," he gestured at the funeral home, "makes everyone think about mortality."

"True, true." The man raised the cigarette for another puff. "I used to think Rick was a young man. I'm older than him, you know – older than all of them. There was eighteen years between me and youngest of us 'kids.' Yeah, that's how it is with big families. . . 'Course you wouldn't know that, only child and all." He gazed frankly at Mark. "You must have your mother's looks."

Mark stared back. _How in the hell. . ._ "I – I'm sorry," he stuttered, "but I'm not even sure who you are – "

The man smiled. "Don't worry about it. You were just a little thing. It was at Rick and Marion's wedding, I think, when I last saw you. I didn't get to the vow renewal." He patted his chest again. "Had the surgery end of January that year."

"No," McCormick shook his head again, "I wasn't at the – "

"Oh, you didn't make it either? Well, I know Milt did. Yep, he took up with my youngest sister back then. Oh, now don't get all upset," he said, as if predicting McCormick's response. "I actually was one of the ones who supported her. She'd been moping around since Phil died and her son and his wife moved down South. She barely showed her face, stayed home and mourned for purt-near two years. Yep, Milt got her out of her slump, so to speak. Your dad was good for her, Tommy."

 _Ahh. . ._ It was like the click of a light bulb. " _No_ ," he said firmly. " _Mark_. I'm not Tommy." He held out his hand. "Mark McCormick. And you are - ? "

The smoking man lowered his cigarette. His eyes clouded in confusion. "But – but you were – you're with all of Marion's family. And I saw you with Milt, I saw you talking and all, and I just assumed. . . " He looked closer at Mark. "You with Warren? Did she finally find someone?"

McCormick sighed, lowering his hand. _Should've stayed inside._ "I'm Warren's friend, yes, but I'm more here with the judge. You're sure you haven't heard of me? Mark McCormick? Hardcastle's rehabilitation project?"

"You're not Tom."

Another sigh. "No. Tom's dead. He died in Vietnam."

The man dropped his cigarette to the ground, stepping on it and grinding it into the asphalt. "Vietnam. _Damn_."

"Yeah."

The older man rubbed his hands together. "Cold out here. We should get back inside." He led the way, stepping up to the back door. He was just about to open it when he turned back. "Oh, right." He extended his hand. "Russ Wyngate. Nice to meetcha."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

As the visitation wound down and most of the mourners left in groups of three and four, McCormick scanned the room for Hardcastle, only to find the older man was missing. Hoping that Russ Wyngate hadn't cornered him, Mark headed for the smaller side room in search of his friend. He was worried Russ would tell the judge about how he had believed Mark to be Tommy, and while the mistaken identity was not his fault in any way, McCormick still felt guilty. There had been other times when he and Hardcastle had been mistaken for father and son, but in all of those cases it had been by someone who didn't really know them, or of their unique relationship. He had never before been identified as Tom Hardcastle. To McCormick, that seemed almost like blasphemy.

The small side room held the coffee machine, a couch and chair, and a coat closet. Many of the mourners had hung their coats in another closet at the front of the funeral home, so Mark found the smaller room almost deserted – except for Hardcastle and Constance. The two were seated on the couch, embracing. It was not an embrace of sympathy, or one of friendship. There was a definite intimacy to the hug.

McCormick immediately backed up, apologizing simultaneously – or trying to, anyway. "I – Sorry – I'm . . . Yeah." As he fled the room he ran into Marion, who was on her way to the restroom. He soon found himself stumbling over another flustered apology.

Marion lifted her hands in a "stop" gesture. "Mark, calm down. Why are you so nervous?" She had barely finished her inquiry when Hardcastle came out of the side room, an expression of unease on his face. "You didn't have to take off, kid," he informed Mark. "It's about time I introduced you."

Mark went from tongue-tied to speechless. He looked from the judge to Marion, and back again. Milt huffed, then turned back to the small room. "Well, when you learn how to talk again, come meet her."

Mark took a step toward the side room, then hesitated. Marion pushed him firmly on the shoulder. "Go. Before he changes his mind."

This time when McCormick entered the room, Milt and Constance were sitting side by side on the couch, but no longer in an embrace. Even so, there was little space between the man and woman. Mark had only a brief moment to notice that before Hardcastle rose, extending a hand to help Constance up. She regarded McCormick with good-natured curiosity.

Hardcastle indicated Mark. "Connie, this is that friend of mine I mentioned, Mark." He looked hard at the ex-con. _Don't make me regret this._

Mark held out his hand, and Constance gripped it warmly. "Constance Bender," she said. "Used to be Wyngate."

"Mark McCormick. It's good to meet you."

"McCormick?" Constance's face twisted into a grin that she was obviously trying to prevent. "Really?" She lost the battle, and the grin turned into peals of laughter. Hardcastle joined in, and from the looks the two traded, Mark felt he was the butt of a private joke. "Am I getting teased again?" he asked moodily.

Constance shook her head, gasping back another laugh. "No, no, I'm sorry. It's a little funny, that's all – my son, his wife's maiden name is McCormick. When I mentioned that to Milt yesterday, he got a kick out of it. I get it now."

"Your son's wife? So your daughter-in-law's a McCormick?" Mark wasn't sure he saw the humor. He looked anxiously at the judge.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about it kid. Hate to tell you, but your name's pretty common," Hardcastle chuckled. "Unless you think you have relatives in Minnesota."

Mark shrugged, realizing how unlikely it was that he was somehow related to Constance's daughter-in-law. "Wait," he said, suddenly concerned again, "her name's not Annie, is it?"

Constance shook her head. "No, Colleen."

"Ah. Okay then," McCormick said, satisfied. He sat down in the chair, and gazed up at the couple. "Now why don't you two youngsters tell me just how serious you are about each other." He crossed his legs, folded his hands together and placed them on his lap, and then nodded at the couch. "Sit. Let's talk about where you see this relationship going."

Milt dropped to the couch, and lowered his forehead into his hand. "This was a mistake."

Constance looked down at the ex-jurist. "Excuse me?" she asked, her tone suspicious.

Milt looked up, and seeing the woman's displeased face, immediately became contrite. "No, not _you_ – I mean him," he waved a jerky hand at McCormick, "and me, bringing him and his smart mouth into the mix."

Mark sighed. "Uncomfortable situations, Judge." He passed a hand in front of himself from head to torso, as if he were an item in a showcase. "I warned you."

Constance looked between both men, shaking her head. "Well, if you two are done. . . " She sat down next to the judge. "I think we need to talk. Mark brought up a good point."

Proudly: "I did?"

Suspiciously: "He did?"

Constance shook her head again, this time with a laugh. Then she became serious. "Milt, where _are_ we going with this relationship? I deserve to know. Is this going to be another case of you being interested in me when you're here, but then you go back home and I become an afterthought?"

Mark whistled softly. "Jeez, Judge, I know I've called you 'Hunt 'em, Hear 'em and Hang 'em Hardcastle,' but I never thought to label you as 'Love 'em and Leave 'em Milt'."

Hardcastle swiped at McCormick's crossed foot. "Knock it off!" he ordered, his voice rising. Mark pulled his foot back and sat up straight, grinning. When the judge didn't return the smile, and if anything, became more hostile, the younger man quickly rose. "Uh, maybe I should go, let you two talk privately, huh?"

Milt glared. "Maybe you should."

McCormick backed toward the door. "I'm gonna go." He was almost out when he remembered why he'd been searching for the judge in the first place. "Oh, wait." He held out a placating hand, warding off another angry stare. "Judge, the reason I came to find you is because it's getting late, and the Aunts are bushed. They're ready to leave."

Hardcastle's scowl faded somewhat. "So take them home. I'll catch a ride with Warren and Mary."

"Okay. Good." Mark took a breath, looked around aimlessly, and then smiled briefly at Constance. "It was nice to meet you, Constance."

"Connie, please," she said, smiling as well. Feeling reassured, Mark grinned back, until the judge cleared his throat significantly. The young man's grin disappeared. "I'm going, I'm going." He hurriedly left the room.

After McCormick exited, Hardcastle felt a mix of relief and panic. He had been glad to get the young man out of the room before he'd said something really inappropriate, but at the same time, as he now looked at Constance's expectant, slightly impatient expression, Milt realized that maybe the kid could have been a good advocate. Or at least a buffer.

"I'm waiting," Constance said. Her arms were folded, and "slightly" was no longer a good description of her impatience. Milt took a deep breath, smiled, and reached for the woman's hand. She let him, unfolding her arms and lessening her frown.

"Connie," he started, "I like you. You're smart, and fun, and kind, you don't put up with any nonsense – and you're not bad to look at." The last part was delivered with a small grin. Constance returned it, laughing softly. Milt continued. "I liked you pretty much the moment I met you. Maybe I was scared how much I liked you, I don't know. . . There are a lot of reasons why I stopped calling you back then, why I didn't stay in touch. Lousy reasons, most of them. But I guess maybe the distance was the big thing." He sighed. "It still is."

She nodded slowly. "I know back then you were still on the bench, so you couldn't stay out here. And it wasn't like I could afford to fly to California to visit, at least not enough to keep up any kind of a true relationship. I realized that. But I liked you too, Milt. I had put up some pretty high walls after Phillip died, and I knocked them down for you. So even though I understood that we couldn't really be together, it still hurt." She gazed into his eyes, and he did his best to not look away. After a moment, Constance lowered her eyes and sighed sadly.

"So what do we do, Milt?"

He lifted her hand, kissing it softly. "I don't think I can ask you to move out to L.A. You grew up out here, you still got family in the area. I couldn't ask you to leave that. Plus, California's a big change from Minnesota."

She nodded again. "I know. We have snowstorms and an occasional tornado. You have crime, and earthquakes, and wildfires, and mudslides, and, and . . . _traffic._ "

He laughed, squeezing her hand affectionately. "Smart aleck. Now you sound like McCormick." His eyes became distant but his smile remained. Constance looked at him thoughtfully.

"He's not just your friend, is he?"

Hardcastle's eyes snapped back in focus. "What? What do you mean?" he asked sharply.

"Relax, Milt." She caressed his shoulder. "I just meant, he's your 'work in progress,' right?"

"Oh," Milt breathed out, "that." Then: "You know about that, about him? Let me guess: everyone's gossiping about him this time, instead of talking about us." He pressed his lips together in a tense line.

"No, I don't think so," Constance said. "I already knew who he was – I mean, I knew he was the ex-convict you've been working with. I don't think Marion ever told me his last name. I'm sure if she had I would've remembered it." She smiled in remembrance of the coincidence.

Milt's frown remained. "Marion already told you about him? When?"

"Well, she's mentioned him once or twice, but I think the last time was back in February. We'd gotten together for Rick's birthday, and like I usually did, I'd asked Marion about you." She blushed, and Milt felt his heart beat a little faster. She was damn pretty when she blushed.

Constance went on. "Marion told me she hadn't talked to you since Christmas, but that she had recently heard from your aunts. And that they had told her your friend – I think Marion just called him Mark – had been badly hurt. During some sort of investigation the two of you were doing? So naturally I asked her what that meant, and she was somewhat vague. . . She said that you were following up on some of the cases that came through your courtroom." She looked closely at the judge. "It seems you've been busy the last five years, too."

He waved a hand, feeling his own face grow warm. "Well, the last three since I retired, anyway." He smiled faintly. "Hardly feels like retirement. If I'm not busy 'following up' on my cases, keeping an eye on the kid definitely takes up some time." The wan smile faded. "Probably shoulda told Mary myself when he got hurt, but I guess I thought since she hadn't met him yet. . . I suppose Warren told her, too."

Constance studied the man's grave expression. "But he's better?" she asked. "He doesn't look ill."

"Nah, he's okay now." Milt's persistent frown belied his words. Constance didn't reply, and when he looked at her, noticing her silence, he saw a doubtful look. He fought to clear his own expression. "He's physically okay. Maybe still some after-effects. Bad dreams. You know."

Constance watched Hardcastle for a few moments, then shook her head with a resigned smile. "Well. Then I guess you moving out here to Minnesota isn't a possibility either. You've got your own family I couldn't ask you to leave."

"He's not – it's not like –" Milt broke off, wondering why he automatically denied it. Hadn't he just told the kid last night ( _technically this morning_ ) that he was family? "You picked up on that, huh?" he asked with a look of chagrin.

"Even if Marion hadn't told me that you were good friends, I probably would've figured it out. Especially considering he's here. I don't think you'd bring a casual acquaintance to your brother-in-law's funeral." She tilted her head with an amused smile. "And the way he acted after he met me. That easy way he settled into the smart remarks? I don't think you'd let just anyone talk to you like that."

"I _don't_ let him talk to me like that!" Hardcastle blustered. "That's why I kicked him out!"

"Oh. Okay." Constance nodded, still smiling.

Milt gradually stopped demurring. He looked down, shaking his head. "So we're back where we started. Distance."

Constance reached out, touching Milt's face so that he looked up. When she had his attention, she sidled closer. His breathing quickened, and when he inhaled he could smell her perfume – a sweet musk. It was intoxicating, and he drew her close. He leaned down at the same time that she lifted her face, and their lips met in a soft, long kiss. When they parted, Constance drew back, and Milt was dismayed to see tears in her eyes.

"This is it, then," she said, her voice shaking a little. "Two ships passing in the night."

"Aw, Connie," he mumbled, pulling her into an embrace.

* * *

When Marion, Warren, and Hardcastle returned home, all three quickly retired for the night, exhausted by their respective interactions at the funeral home. Additionally, they all needed to be up relatively early for the funeral the next day.

Hardcastle descended the stairs into the basement, expecting McCormick to already be in the small bedroom, again laying claim to the privacy and the nicer bed. Instead, he found his friend siting on the sofa in a tee-shirt and his nice slacks, watching television. Mark looked up at the judge's entrance, and quickly grabbed the remote to click the TV off.

"Hey. What happened with you and Connie?"

Hardcastle stood at the base of the stairs, his hand still on the banister. "Damn it, McCormick, give me a minute!"

The young man grinned mischievously. "I gave you plenty. We've been back close to an hour. And no, I didn't speed. Ask May and Zora, they'll vouch for me."

"Yeah, I'm sure they will," Hardcastle muttered. "And you're wrinkling those pants!"

McCormick ignored the nagging. Instead, he reached over and patted the other sofa cushion. C'mon. Sit down. Dish _._ "

Milt lowered himself to the sofa with a tired exhale. "Not much to tell you, kid. We're not going to try any kind of relationship. It's too hard with the distance. We'll still be friends, but it doesn't make sense to be anything more right now."

Mark sat back with a disgusted expression. "Doesn't make sense? Judge, when you're attracted to somebody, when there's chemistry, 'sense' doesn't figure into it. If the chemistry's strong enough, you find a way to make it work." His grin returned. "And when I saw you guys together, it looked like some pretty strong chemistry."

Hardcastle tried to glare at the delighted man, but Mark's grin was so infectious Milt soon found he was also smiling. "Okay," he allowed, "I feel pretty strongly about Connie. If things were different – if she wasn't so far away – I could see me getting serious about her. And she told me she feels the same way." He toyed with a loose thread on his jacket. "But she's not going to leave her home to move to California, and I've got reasons for not moving out here, so that's that." He stood up, then removed his jacket and folded it over his arm. "Now I want to get some shut-eye, so head on out of here so I can make this thing into a bed."

McCormick rose obediently, but he stood and watched the judge with a thoughtful frown. Hardcastle had taken the cushions off of the sofa and had pulled out the bed frame before he realized he was being watched. He looked up at Mark. "What're you staring at me for?" he demanded.

"I was just thinking. . . Judge, you're not personally responsible for wiping out all crime in Southern California. If you left – I mean, if you moved out here – it's not like the criminals would take over. There's plenty of good people on the law and order side to take care of things. You know, like Frank and Delaney and. . ."

Hardcastle was regarding the young man, perplexed, and McCormick trailed off. He tucked his hands in his pockets and lowered his gaze to the floor, then spoke again in a soft voice. "I know what we do is important. Busting the bad guys and all that." Mark lifted his head. "But it doesn't have to be your whole life. You deserve to think about yourself, too, Judge," he said sincerely.

Now the judge was shaking his head, trying to decide if he was amused or irritated. "Kiddo, it's not your job to worry about my love life – "

"– or lack thereof –"

"– _but,_ " Hardcastle growled as he continued, "I didn't exactly say I was giving up on her. Just that it isn't going to work out right now. Maybe sometime in the future, things could change, who knows."

McCormick shook his head. "You don't keep a woman like Connie dangling on a string, Judge. I'm surprised she waited five years for you as it is."

"She wasn't 'waiting' for me!" The irritation was taking over. "And what do you know about it anyway?" Hardcastle looked evenly at the younger man. " _How_ do you know about it, anyway?"

Mark raised his eyebrows and returned the judge's look with a smug smirk, but didn't answer. Milt snorted, then said it for him. "May and Zora."

"And Warren."

"Warren?" Hardcastle exclaimed, his voice holding a note of betrayal.

McCormick shrugged humbly, but his words soon negated the gesture. "Well, you know I've got a way with your female relatives. I bet I can find out even more from Marion. You think?"

"No, I _don't_ think –" Milt broke off, refusing to take the bait. "McCormick, I want to get some sleep. We got a lot goin' on tomorrow. What do I need to say to get rid of you?"

"I don't know. . . " Mark drawled. "Maybe. . . that you'll come out here more often to visit your sister. Who just happens to live about a half hour away from Connie. I mean, you _are_ retired, Judge. Do the things normal retirees do. Collect stamps. Play bingo. Travel."

"Travel, hmm?" Milt repeated. He rearranged the sheets and blanket on the sofa bed, then slowly straightened. "I guess I could do that. I'm sure Mary wouldn't mind hosting us for Christmas."

"Christmas?" McCormick whined. "It's cold enough here in April. What the heck is it like in December?" In response to the judge's infuriated scowl, Mark immediately changed his tune. "Right, yeah, we'll come visit at Christmas. Great. Hell, why stop there? There's Thanksgiving, the Fourth of July, Arbor Day . . . "

Hardcastle swung a pillow at the younger man, who danced back out of range with a wide grin.

"Go to bed, McCormick!"


	11. Chapter 11

_**Author's Note:**_ This is the final chapter. _Thank you_ to everyone who has reviewed, and sorry for again taking what I had initially planned to be short story, and making a damn production out of it. Blast my natural loquaciousness! (Not even sure if that's a word, but Microsoft Word didn't underline it in red, so I'm keeping it!)

 **-ck**

* * *

 **Chapter Eleven**

The funeral the next day was held at eleven, with the meal scheduled afterward in the adjoining fellowship hall. As the ground was still partially frozen in the small cemetery where Rick was to be buried, there would be no interment; the funeral home, prepared for this contingency in the northern portion of a cold climate state, had a refrigerated morgue on site. Marion, Constance, and Rick's brother Matthew, who also lived nearby, had already planned to gather in early May for Rick's eventual burial. Any other family who was available had also been invited, although most had already declined.

McCormick hadn't been surprised. He himself didn't like the idea of an extended mourning period, and murmured his opinion to the judge as they sat in the church. "I know it's cold up here, but the ground's not frozen solid, is it? You're telling me they couldn't use a backhoe to dig a hole in the cemetery?"

"Probably," Milt whispered back, "but they might have had to use some special warming device ahead of time, and that would have been more expensive. Anyway, it was Marion's choice." He nodded at the woman sitting in the pew in front of them. Marion was speaking quietly to Warren, her hand resting on her daughter's arm. Warren nodded back silently, and then her body shook with an obvious sob. Marion's arm moved to encircle Warren's shoulders, and she pulled her daughter into a brief hug. When Warren moved away, she was wiping at her eyes and nose.

Milt reached to grab his handkerchief, but had barely pulled it from his jacket pocket before McCormick was touching Warren gently on the shoulder. "Here," he said, offering the young woman an elegant patterned handkerchief that complemented his dark suit jacket. Warren took Mark's handkerchief with a watery smile, then turned around again toward the front of the church.

McCormick also studied the front of the church, not turning to look at the judge, even though he knew the man was staring at him. Mark did cast a sidelong glance at his friend. "I hope you noticed there was not a shred of lace on that hanky," he said softly, smirking.

As they were at a funeral, Milt bit his tongue to keep from laughing.

ooOoo

McCormick settled by Aunt Zora with his second plate of food, trying to ignore the woman's slightly jealous expression. After all, he had noticed both sisters commenting on how tasty the pasta salad was, so he didn't think he would get openly admonished for enjoying the catered lunch.

"I think I'm getting them all straight now," Mark said between bites. "Connie and Russ are easy, because I met them already." He pointed with his fork at a table several feet away, where Constance and Russ were seated, with Marion in between them. Marion and Constance seemed to be talking conspiratorially. The position of the two women's heads, tipped toward each other, reminded McCormick of Zora and May.

After another bite, Mark nodded at a slightly closer table. "That's Earl and Matthew, and that woman in the grey and white, is that the other sister, or Matthew's wife?"

May sat down, holding a small plate with a lemon square and a brownie on it. "Oh, where did you find those?" Mark asked. "I didn't get to the desserts yet." He twisted around on his chair.

May placed the plate in front of him. "They're yours, dear." Mark began to protest, but she remained firm. "I'm too full, anyway. I just took them because the deserts were getting low. That seems to be the only thing the children are eating." She shook her head disapprovingly. "And the woman in the grey and white is Matthew's wife Winnie. Rick's other sister is up at the buffet line." McCormick turned around again to look. "The one at the coffee station," May elaborated. "That's Frances."

McCormick turned back to his food. He took a drink of coffee, then started to tick the siblings off on his fingers. "Okay. Russ. Earl. Rick. Matthew. Frances. Gregory. Connie. And James is the one who died in the car accident." He considered his tally. "That's eight. Did I get them all right?"

"Very good, Mark," Zora complemented him. "And in such a short time!" May agreed.

Mark laughed. "Just don't ask me to name all their kids and grandkids." He bit into the lemon square and moaned in delight, then looked guiltily at the Aunts. "Sorry, but they're really good."

Milt came to sit in their group, holding a fresh cup of coffee and a desert plate. McCormick assessed his choices and coveted the older man's lemon square, even though he hadn't yet finished his own. Hardcastle saw what the eager eyes were pointed at, and with a sigh, added his lemon square to McCormick's plate.

Mark had finished both lemon desserts and was starting on the brownie when he heard May and Zora whispering to each other. Trying to focus on the words, he picked out "Warren" and "Evelyn." Raising his head to gaze at what had caught the Aunts' attention, he saw Warren standing off the side of the buffet line, speaking to Perfect Evelyn. Even from a distance McCormick could see Warren's uneasy posture, and Evelyn's haughty expression. "Oh, jeez, she's at it again," Hardcastle muttered.

"At what again?" McCormick washed down the bite of brownie with another drink of coffee, not taking his eyes off the two young women.

The judge grumbled softly. "Remember I told you Warren's cousins get on her case about her not being married or having kids? Evelyn's kinda the ringleader. Probably a good thing her and Warren don't see each other much."

Mark drained his coffee, then pushed away from the table. "I'll be right back," he said.

Hardcastle reached out, snagging Mark by his elbow. "What are you doing, McCormick?" he asked apprehensively. Mark shook off his hand. "I've got this. Don't worry."

As Milt watched the young man walk away, he snorted derisively. "Don't worry, he says. Like I have a choice."

ooOoo

Mark strode up purposefully behind Warren, and without preamble, looped an arm around her waist. He next pecked her cheek. "Hey, babe, I was looking for you." Keeping his arm tightly around Warren's suddenly tense body, he smiled at Evelyn. "I don't think I've met you yet. You're Warren's cousin . . . Eunice?"

"It's _Evelyn_ ," the woman corrected Mark through gritted teeth. At the same moment, Warren fought back a laugh.

"Oh, _Evelyn_. Sorry about that." Mark's smile didn't diminish. He held out the hand that wasn't around Warren's waist. "I'm Mark McCormick. Warren's boyfriend."

Evelyn cautiously took Mark's hand, and he pumped hers firmly. "Boyfriend?" she echoed, the doubt clear in her voice.

"Yup. Over three months now. You want to tell Evie how we met?" He beamed at Warren, who looked back blankly, her eyes somewhat wide. McCormick shrugged, still smiling happily. "Okay, I'll tell it." He turned back to Evelyn. "It was a New Year's Eve party. Warren was there with this jerk – who was it, hon? – Max, that's it. He had gotten wasted, and he was – well, he was being an ass. Anyway, there was no way he could drive, and I didn't think Warren should have to wait around for a cab. I mean, it was New Year's Eve, in L.A.! She would've been stuck waiting until the next year!" He laughed heartily at his bad joke.

"So I offered to drive her home, and we hit it off right away. Spent the whole night talking, well into the morning. She broke it off with Max, and here we are." He pulled Warren against him, leaning down, and this time the kiss was anything but chaste. He eased his hand down Warren's back and squeezed her rear, making sure the gesture was well within Evelyn's view.

Warren broke the kiss by pushing Mark away gently – much more gently than he had expected. Her face was flushed and her eyes were sparkling, and McCormick felt the sudden thrill of a successful con. He left his arm loosely around her waist and gazed in her eyes, then completed their fake origin story. "You could say Warren and I were each other's New Year's Resolutions," he said huskily.

Warren held his gaze, and the two looked at each other for several moments until Evelyn cleared her throat. McCormick snapped his attention back to Warren's cousin. She was now regarding the couple with a look that Mark could only describe as jealously. The thrill increased.

"Well, Warren," Evelyn said, smiling tightly, "you've been holding out on me."

"I have." Warren nodded. "I'm sorry, Evelyn. I didn't want to draw attention away from why we're here. But try telling this guy." She smacked Mark's arm lightly. "Although I have to admit he's been a welcome distraction." Warren grasped Mark's hand and squeezed it, her eyes dancing as she smiled up at him.

"So. . . three months." Evelyn looked between Mark and Warren. "That's a big deal for you, Warren." Her tone verged on condescending. Mark's eyes narrowed slightly, and he decided as long as he'd gone this far, he might as well go a little further. "Eve, can you keep a secret?" he asked in a whisper. "We've talked about making our relationship official. I have to get enough scratch together to buy her a decent ring first, so we haven't really told anyone, but hey, you're family." He held his finger in front of his lips. "Keep it to yourself though, okay Evie?"

" _Evelyn_ ," the woman again corrected him, her voice icy.

"Sorry," Mark said, not sorry at all. "That's a great name, too. Warren and I have been talking a little about names, you know, for when that happens." He reached with his hand that was encircling Warren, and patted at her flat stomach. "We agreed that Warren gets to pick the girl names, and I pick the boys'. I'm really hoping for a boy first – I've got the perfect name." He leaned closer, as if in confidence, and raised his eyebrows.

Evelyn backed away, but McCormick's engaged face was too much for her curiosity to bear. "Well?" she asked impatiently.

"Yes, Mark," Warren said, her voice pitched higher than usual. "Tell her."

McCormick grinned. "Quentin."

Warren began to cough violently. Mark thumped her on the back. "Hey, you okay, babe?" She nodded, still coughing and unable to talk. Her eyes were watering, and she had her hands pressed in front of her mouth. Mark looked apologetically at Evelyn. "I better make sure she's all right. Talk to you later Eve, okay?" He took Warren by the arm and drew her away from Evelyn, back to a small alcove near the restrooms. "Are you all right?" he asked her sincerely. "Do you need me to get you some water?"

Warren took her hands away from her mouth and burst out laughing. She gasped, coughed some more, and then was finally able to talk. "Oh, God. Oh, God, Mark. _Quentin_. That –" she coughed again "– that was brilliant!"

McCormick's grin was pretty brilliant as well. "Yeah? I wasn't sure what you'd think about that little routine. I just figured you deserved some payback."

"I wasn't sure at first either," Warren admitted, "until I saw her face. Mark, that was perfect. I loved it. But you must realize, you're stuck now." She looked candidly at McCormick. "Any and all of my family functions, you are now required to attend. And the next time I see Evelyn, I want there to be a ring on this hand." She wiggled the fingers of her left hand at Mark. Then, still laughing, she walked back into the main area of the hall. Mark watched her depart, his grin now replaced with a disgruntled scowl.

"How in the hell did that happen?" he muttered.

* * *

Hardcastle and McCormick's flight home left within an hour of the Aunts' flight back to Arkansas, requiring only one trip to the airport. So the next morning found the four of them saying their collective goodbyes to Marion and Warren. The younger Wyngate woman had indeed decided to stay a little longer in Minnesota. She gave the judge a hug, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "I'll be back in California in a few weeks or so, after we bury Dad," she said. "I already called Val and she said she can stop by to take in my mail and keep an eye on everything."

Milt waved it off. "Don't worry about it. McCormick and I can make sure your place is taken care of. You come back when you're ready." He again embraced his niece.

When the judge stepped back, the young woman turned to Mark. He eyed her uneasily, then abruptly stuck his hand out. "See you later, Warren."

Warren looked at the extended hand and shook her head with a wry grin. Grabbing Mark's hand, she pulled him down toward her and threw her arms around his neck. "I think I might really miss you, Mark," she said, and then laughed at the surprise in the deep blue eyes. "I wasn't kidding yesterday when I said you were a welcome distraction." She kissed him on the cheek. "Stay out of trouble, okay? And feel free to borrow any of my books." This last bit was said in a whisper, accompanied by a wink.

If McCormick was surprised by Warren's words, Marion's farewell stymied him even more. She briefly drew Mark aside from the group, and pressed a small folded envelope in his hand. "Don't let Milt know you have this," she directed quietly. "At least, not until you're well on your way home. By that time he won't be able to do anything about it. Or he won't bother to try."

McCormick obediently shoved the envelope into his jeans pocket, then accepted an affectionate hug from the woman. When they parted he was aware of a lump in his throat. He didn't have any vague thoughts, like Warren's, that he "might" miss the judge's sister – he knew he was going to miss Marion Wyngate. He made a mental note to use that fact to convince Hardcastle to visit more often. Hopefully it wouldn't backfire, like when he had "rescued" Warren from Perfect Evelyn.

Mark was volunteered to cart the luggage to the rental car. After depositing the luggage in the trunk and waving a final goodbye to Warren and Marion, Mark seated himself behind the steering wheel. He watched from the car as the goodbyes continued: the Aunts hugging Marion and Warren, Hardcastle embracing his sister. McCormick felt a slight surge of envy. Not for the first time, he pondered what it would've been like to have a sibling.

On the heels of that rumination came another, unbidden but also inescapable: _I might have a sibling. A half-sibling, anyway. With a guy like Sonny as a father, I could have more than one half-sibling out there. _He wondered if he'd ever find out. He wondered if Sonny would even know.

Mark shook off the distracting thoughts, and returned to his earlier lament. Possibly having a long-lost sibling – somewhere – wasn't the same as growing up with a sister or brother. He would've even taken a brother like Gerry. For all of his numerous vocal complaints about his younger brother, it was still obvious that Milt had a definite bond with Gerald Hardcastle. The two might not be bosom brothers, but they had grown up together, living in close quarters, sharing adventures and making memories. That was bound to make two individuals close. _Hell, it had worked with me and Hardcase._

Gerald Hardcastle had finally called last night, apologizing for not making it to the funeral. He hadn't made an excuse, only saying that his absence had been unavoidable, but that he would get to Minnesota to visit as soon as he was able. Gerald had spoken briefly with everyone in residence (Milt had made sure of this, as the long-distance call had been on his brother's dime), and then the three siblings had enjoyed a "conference call," with Marion and Milt on separate extensions. There had been joking and loud laughter, something McCormick had not expected, especially knowing how Hardcastle could get tense and upset when his younger brother's name was brought up in casual conversation. But after the hour-long phone call had ended, the judge had been chuckling and smiling, and his good mood had lasted for the rest of the night.

Hardcastle and McCormick parted ways with the Aunts at the airport, leaving them to their drinks in the airport bar. The two men arrived at the gate for their flight home with barely ten minutes to spare. The retired judge and the ex-con had been on the plane for close to an hour before Mark remembered the envelope Marion had given him. He dug into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled envelope, sliding his finger under the flap and tearing it open. Inside was a hand-written note. Mark read it quietly with a steadily growing smile.

Hardcastle had been leaning back in his seat with his eyes closed, but he had felt McCormick's movement, and was now looking at the paper the young man was reading. "What's that?" he muttered, noticing his friend's grin.

"Oh, just a note." Mark held the small piece of paper off to the side, away from the judge. "Something that you might complain about. Although I'll bet it'll be just a lot of hot air. You know, to keep up appearances."

"What are you going on about?" Hardcastle reached for the paper, stretching his arm across Mark's body. "Where'd you get that, anyway?"

"Marion. And she said I wasn't supposed to show you." Mark shook his head in mock sadness. "She's gonna be disappointed in me."

"Yeah, well, you're not living with her." Milt again reached for the paper. "Give me that, or you're going to have to worry about more than 'disappointment' when we get home!"

McCormick relinquished the paper with a resigned sigh. Then he watched in amused expectation as the judge read the date and airline information that indicated Constance's upcoming visit to California.

Milt read and re-read his sister's neat handwriting. "What is this? Who did this? You?" he glared suspiciously at McCormick.

"Don't look at me, Kemosabe. I think your sister and Connie put this little surprise together."

Hardcastle just shook his head. "June. She's coming to California in June."

Mark leaned back in his own seat with a satisfied smile.

"I guess she's coming to visit for Flag Day."

 _ **END**_


End file.
